


Solace

by beneaththeskin



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Panic Attacks, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Slow Burn, actually like tragedy level angst so bear with me please, important platonic relationships, massive mama kou-chan, nothing explicit but still beware please, team mama suga and mama kou-chan, the fluff and comfort hopefully make up for it, there's lots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9452471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beneaththeskin/pseuds/beneaththeskin
Summary: "Solace" (n.)1. comfort in sorrow, misfortune, or trouble; alleviation of distress or discomfort2. something that gives comfort, consolation, or relief





	1. Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic dealing with quite some heavy topics, so I hope you all are safe while reading this. Please take better care of yourself than Oikawa (you know, drink your water, eat, sleep, rely on your friends).  
> I do include quite a bit of comfort thought, there won't only be suffering. But it is slow. It's mostly a therapeutic fic for me.  
> All questions and comments welcome, they make me very happy. You can also reach me on tumblr (beneaththeskin.tumblr.com).
> 
> If this is any kind of emotional comfort to any of you then I am happy.
> 
> PS: If you are interested in the music Tsukki played there, from the bar where Oikawa becomes reaware of the beat is this one:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKCnOgPgsk  
> It starts at around 6:38 in the mix, up to around the 13th minute (but you don't have to listen to all of it, i find just the overall feel important, the vibe, so it's completely fine to listen according to your reading speed).  
> It then transfers into "In your body", by Cosmin TRG:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Lv_qg9iKtA

_Echo (n.)  
_

_6\. a lingering trace or effect_

 

Oikawa wearily opens his eyes, lids hanging heavy and feeling like they’ve been rubbed raw. The desire to close them again is strong, but the running water disturbs him. It’s hot yet chilling at the same time. The off-white tile against his cheek is hard, solid. There’s water gently rocking against his barely open lips. He spits some of it out. It sticks to his chin.

He tries to push himself up on his elbow but slips, limbs weak and numb, knocking his temple on the wet floor. It stings. As he manages to heavily get up on his knees, blood drains from his face, making him reel forward and swallow against the bile deep in his throat. Sparing a glance at the sink to his left, faintly clenching and unclenching his fingers in the water, he closes his eyes.

_Breathe out._

The air won’t leave his lungs.

He drags himself up with the help of the doorframe, the headache blacking out his vision for a long moment, turns to turn off the shower, turns off the light, walks to the bedroom, gathers the blanket around his naked body, sinks to the floor and tries to make his teeth unclench.

 

When Oikawa gets up the next morning, Iwaizumi has yet to return from his shift. He winces at the early morning sun, too bright, too intrusive, feeling like death warmed over. His mouth tastes stale, and he feels another faint surge of acid so he sits up with his head between his knees, taking deep breaths. Long inhale, long exhale. And repeat.

He pries his fingers from his hair at the remembrance of his International Law homework, bitterly wishing he never had to move from the floor.

The strong urge to wash his mouth out got him to reconsider.

He doesn’t look at his reflection in the mirror.

A few hours pass working in a caffeinated blur behind his laptop on the living room sofa, perpetually shifting around trying to find a comfortable position. On his side, on his back, cross-legged leaning back. The dull ache in his joints refuses to subside, radiating and making him protective of his knee. The thrumming beat emanating from his headphones brings some semblance of calm, despite Bokuto’s mixes being the body-rocking, ear-crushing type.

The warm hand over his clavicle startles him out of his zone.

“Hey,” he whispers, sliding off his headphones. For a moment he wonders why he had to whisper. Something’s tight in his chest.

Iwaizumi returns the sentiment, studying him for a moment, then slowly lowering himself on the sofa next to the brunette with a soft sigh. He all but melds into the cushions. It must be past noon if Iwaizumi is back from his 24-hour shift already.

“Rough night?” Oikawa offers, lowering his hands back to the keyboard on his lap, more out of comfort than a desire to go back to writing. He tries to resist the urge to once again readjust his legs under the fleece blanket of varying grey squares.

Iwaizumi gives a noncommittal hum to that. “I’m tired, but I don’t think I can sleep just yet.”

Oikawa hums back, returning his gaze from his flat mate’s face to the screen. In Iwaizumi speak that means it was worse than usual, residual adrenaline still keeping him agitated and unable to relax, but that he doesn’t really feel like talking about it. After more than a year of Iwaizumi working at the fire department they’ve fallen into this routine - Iwaizumi sometimes sitting up with him for a bit after shifts like these, which seems to ease it somewhat, so Oikawa doesn’t comment on it.

Silence hangs in the room for a moment, not heavy, but not as comfortable as it regularly is. Oikawa’s eyes continue swimming along the word document open on his screen, as he more feels than sees Iwaizumi turn towards him, leaning into the couch.

The other man’s breath catches as if he was going to say something, but it morphs into another sigh.

“Spit it, Iwa-chan.”

“Is everything alright?” he replies without a beat, used to the brunette reading when he has something on the tip of his tongue. He knows there’s no use dancing around it. “You were making a face earlier.”

That makes Oikawa glance his way, only to find the other’s gaze directed towards the ceiling in thought, expression not giving much away. “What do you mean?” he asks with a carefully leveled voice. His attention goes to breathing evenly, willing his heart rate to settle back down. He ends up shifting lower into the couch when Iwaizumi takes a moment too long to find an answer.

Eventually Iwaizumi just shrugs lightly.

Oikawa’s fingers barely twitch on the keyboard from the effort of keeping them still, wanting to rub at his arms to soothe their distress. He eyes his neglected glasses on the coffee table with intent. “Think I’ve had too much coffee, it’s like my fourth cup,” he offers explanatively, not even entirely sure Iwaizumi had taken note of his body language. “I’m swamped with homework.”

The unspoken knowledge that he’d never win an argument against the witty brunette renders Iwaizumi silent. He knows even if there was something, he’d never get Oikawa to talk unless he himself decides to, so he opts to just stick by him, even if it tends to make him feel helpless.

It’s not a common occurrence, but it’s not the first time Iwaizumi just slumps to the side on the couch, instead of going to his bed to get some proper rest. His arms are pillowing his head, spiky hair almost grazing Oikawa’s thigh. His eyes are closed, but Oikawa knows he’s probably not going to fall asleep anytime soon. The gentle presence is comforting, but filling his head with anxiety at the same time, the close proximity littering his mind with complicated guilt.

“Make sure you take a break at some point, yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

They both know it’s not very likely he will. Oikawa has always been prone to overworking himself, especially if he’s stressed. He puts his headphones back on, Bokuto’s latest club mix still on repeat, and goes back to staring at his homework, trying to make sense of the words on the screen. They keep merging and reordering themselves in his vision, seldom carrying significance besides their graphic composition.

He wills himself to gather his focus for another few hours, the rhythmic beat both helpful and distracting at the same time. It blocks out some of the mental buzz, but it also reverberates low in his stomach with a twinge of nostalgia, a pleasant kind of pain. A mellow void.

The tantalizing beat has his heart thrumming with nervous energy.

He takes a look at Iwaizumi, who seems to have finally fallen into deep sleep, mouth hanging slightly ajar, fingers lax. That something in his chest is spreading, clenching its ugly claws. Setting his laptop along with his headphones on the coffee table and switching it to sleep mode, he takes the fleece blanket of varying chocolate brown squares from the back of the couch and carefully covers Iwaizumi with it up to his cheek. He lingers for a moment, smoothing the fabric down his shoulder.

He can still feel the promising rhythm of the beat in his head while he changes out of his sweatpants and loose shirt. He reaches to pull his favorite sleek black jeans out of the closet, but his fingers halt on the handle.

That’s not where they are.

They’re on the bathroom floor.

He had them on last night.

His breathing stops, the acid attempting to reemerge.

He ventures to the bathroom in nothing but his underwear to gather the clothes from last night, but halts in front of the mirror. There are bruises on his thighs and waist, some high up on his neck.

Had Iwaizumi seen them? Had he been to the bathroom since he got home? Had he seen the clothes? Would he think of this as the regular-

He can’t bear his own stare in the reflection.

Within a foggy minute the clothes are thrown to the bottom of his closet, replaced by plain back jeans, a hoodie and a high-neck jacket, a bottle of gin in his hands from the kitchen counter, the burning liquid thrown back in as many gulps as he can handle in one go. Then some more.

He settles it back on the counter with too much momentum, disturbing the one sleeping on the couch.

He sees the black-haired man stir and rub at the bridge of his nose with his knuckles, pushing himself up on his elbow when their eyes lock.

“Where are you going?” he takes in Oikawa’s appearance, voice heavy with sleep.

“I’m taking my break.”

 

On the way out of their apartment Oikawa checks his phone for the time. Nearing six – way too early in the evening to go to the club – so he drops by the corner store to get another bottle. He didn’t think to take the one from earlier with him, and he doesn’t want to go back. Some feigned composure and barely shaky arms at the register later he’s back on the street, scaling the corner and past some houses to a mostly unused parking lot.

He leans down against the fence framing the area and braces the half-a-liter bottle between his wiry thighs, offering further support while he uncaps it, the sharp smell filling his lungs. He stares at the neck of the bottle, vision starting to swim again, arms still shivering slightly.

The memories feel out of place.

The shards are vivid, the sounds, the smell.

The discomfort.

But they don’t fit into the outline. They exist, but they feel unreal. A fever dream, almost, a ghost of a memory. An echo of something that never took place.

_Please tell me that’s what it is – an echo. Not real._

His hand ghosts over his neck.

No further encouragement needed to ingest a large mouthful of the foul liquid. He winces at the taste, but knows that he’s not even going to feel the burn soon. Just numb.

Numb is good.

Numb is better than this.

He itches for a different kind of numb, a stronger kind, or a gentler kind, and lets his head hit the fence, closing his eyes.

He knows it would be an awful idea, but he still feels the outline of his jacket pocket, his stomach twisting in want.

He could let go and finally, finally, feel nothing.

He takes a deep breath.

>>To Kou-chan: u at club tonite? ‘ll be over later

He anxiously waits for a response, clutching the phone to his forehead. He might not reply. He might not even notice the text, especially if he’s working. Or he might not even be at the club today. No, he’s always there, working or not. But what would he even say to him next? If he let him know, then he definitely couldn’t do _that_.

_What the fuck do I do then?_

His phone pings. But it’s not Bokuto.

>>From Iwa-chan: stay safe, alright?

His stomach drops.

In rapid sequence, there’s another.

>>From Kou-chan: ye bro alrdy at, sup?

He decides to no longer think.

>>To Kou-chan: yellow

He forcefully hits send before he can reconsider.

>>From Kou-chan: got it. smth happen?

He stares at the text for a moment but doesn’t reply, stuffing his phone back to the inner pocket of his jacket one-handed, clenching the bottle in the other. He traces the outline of his lighter through the fabric.

He takes a shuddering breath, forcing it out slowly, slowly, emptying his lungs in time to his heartbeat, watching the November air turn his breath into subtle fog, reminding him of a puff of smoke. He repeats the process with his eyes closed.

His eyes wander soon though, stopping at the neck of the bottle once again, and he wishes on it to stop his mind from reeling.

 

 

It’s cold.

He stops by a random pub on his way to relieve himself, dumping the half-empty gin in a hole in the wall to later be picked up shall he remember where it is he dumped it.

The line to Silver Feather is long, even for a Saturday night. The neon letters and corresponding feather design cast a glow in the slowly falling snow above the entrance.

The air is tranquil, spare for the people yelling at the bouncers.

He spots Kuroo at his usual post – his spiky asymmetrical bedhead isn’t easy to miss. Plus the height, of course.

“It’s in my fucking coat!” some guy shouts at him.

“That’s literally impossible. For your ticket to be inside your coat,” he stands in the guy’s way.

“-it’s in one of my coats. And I got a check. And I put it in my coat,” he insists, pointing his arm towards the club.

“No no,” Kuroo’s migraine is almost visible, “so you give them your coat, and then they give you a ticket,” he explains, “so they already have your coat by the time you have your ticket, so there’s literally _no possible way_ for you to put that ticket in your coat. Literally no way.”

It’s not clear if the guy’s satisfied then but there’s not much more of a fuss for a while.

The line keeps moving, the beat and ambient sounds bleeding outside the club every time the doors open.

“No no, you gotta wait over here, man,” he stops another one.

“I know, I know-,” he steps aside.

“Just wait over here, man, I’m trying to figure shit out,” he examines something in his hands, black strands falling over his eyes, blocking the entrance with his body. He leans over to the other bouncer, likely asking him something about whatever that guy’s problem here is.

“I understand, man, but you gotta go-, what?”

His interest is piqued by a girl next in line, muttering something about that she’s never felt this cold.

“Okay, you really should put your shoes on right now or you’re gonna lose your damn toes,” he looks down at her.

“I know.”

“Go put your shoes on,” he repeats.

“I can’t,” she shakes her head.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Can I just warm up for a second?” she treads, bouncing on her feet.

“No, I can’t let you inside the club,” he says, his voice still as level as always.

“Why--?” she whines.

“’cause you’re not wearing shoes, first of all,” he sighs exasperatedly, and his eyes land on the brunette next in line. “Oikawa,” he smiles. The girl looks dejected but backs away nonetheless, probably to search for warmth elsewhere.

“Hey,” he returns the smile, albeit sympathetically, “tough night?”

“Nah, the usual,” he puffs air at his raven bangs, either out of exhaustion or to clear his vision. “Iwaizumi’s at the fire station?” he asks, checking the next person’s ticket and letting them through, eyes flitting between the two.

“Nah, he finished midday. Resting,” he offers, slightly dazed, recalling Iwaizumi’s text from earlier for probably a longer second than he realizes, because Kuroo’s hand is suddenly on his shoulder. “Huh?” he’s slightly confused.

“I said you can go ahead inside. Bokuto should be by the bar, he’s not working, it’s Tsukki’s set tonight.” His eyes glint in the light, examining Oikawa’s.

“Right. Sorry,” he looks away, feeling Kuroo give him a once-over, but the latter is apprehended by another pissy guy, releasing the brunette’s shoulder.

“Look, I’m not banned, okay? You’ve for hundred percent sure got the wrong guy, because, see, I have a girlfriend--…”

Oikawa strays off into the club.

The beat is loud and consistent, the bass thrumming in his chest, higher psychedelic layers filling it in. The mass of people is fluent in its movement, fluorescent lights filtering through thick smoke. He closes his eyes, taken in by the flow, some of the anxiety ebbing away, trickling into the beat in time with his pulse.

He takes a deep breath, the smell of artificial smoke filling his lungs, somebodies’ shoulders bumping into him from the sides, slightly wavering with intoxication.

He reluctantly edges away from the mass towards the bar, where there’s another person who’s easy to spot by their hair. The full-of-gel black-silver mix shines like starlight. As does his shimmery white dress shirt.

“Hey-hey-hey, handsome,” he wiggles his eyebrows, “ _owl_ by yourself tonight?”

Oikawa sighs deeply, sliding into a bar stool next to him. He has to raise his voice a bit to be heard over the bass. “It must be really hard with your sense of direction. I’m really concerned for you, you know.”

The owl tilts his head in genuine wide-eyed confusion.

“I wonder how you’ll ever be able to find your way to a decent pick-up line.”

His mouth falls open incredulously.

“Perhaps I should bring my glasses with me for you next time?” he grins at said owl.

“Hey, that’s uncalled for! Akaashi!” he leans over the counter, “owl puns aren’t lame, right? Right?”

“I would have to agree they are getting a bit repetitive, Bokuto-san,” the blank-faced bartender replies, wiping at a glass with a silky-looking towel.

“Ack-,” he recoils, clutching at his chest scandalized. His eyes are starting to well up, mouth still impossibly open.

“Could I get a tequila, please?” he asks the less enthusiastic owl, and grins back at Bokuto, “and perhaps some cold water for the burn?”

“Mean, Oikawa! You meanie!” he shouts, to which Akaashi places his palm on the owl’s forearm, catching his attention.

“Not _owl_ puns are lame, Bokuto-san,” he purposefully drags out the word, giving a small polite smile. He hands Oikawa the tequila and turns to a customer next to them by the bar.

The way the owl perks up at that in a split second is pretty impressive of Akaashi. Boy does he know how to handle this sparkling typhoon of a co-owner slash DJ. Kudos to him.

Oikawa eyes the shot in front of him, looking at it with disgust due to the faint queasiness in his stomach, until Bokuto drops into his line of sight, large eyes flitting between his in all seriousness, prior jolly disappeared. He doesn’t have to yell when he’s up this close.

“How much have you had already?”

“A bit,” he laughs with a tinge of bitterness.

“Feeling alright?”

He pauses, replying with a noncommittal shrug. “I just really need to relax.”

Bokuto hums at that, nodding in understanding. He places a hand on his, running his thumb gently over his knuckles, eyes never leaving his, even though Oikawa isn’t reciprocating. “I’ve got you, okay?”

He smiles faintly, closing his eyes. “Sorry.” A beat later he adds with a smaller voice, almost wishing he wouldn’t be able to catch it, “Don’t leave me alone. Please.”

“I won’t,” he says with a sure voice, continuing with a serious face, hand still on Oikawa’s, “gonna stick on you like a blotch of dried cum in your hair, all night.”

Oikawa turns to him with wide eyes and squawks once he fully registers what he just said.

“You just try gettin’ rid of me, you’re gonna just end up smearin’ me around,” he gestures wildly, rubbing his cheek against his own hands, “gonna be all over you.”

Oikawa can’t help but giggle a bit at his antics.

“You’re so gross, you know that?”

“The grossest.”

Their grins fade soon, however. Oikawa knows the owl was trying to cheer him up, and on some level it did help, a bit. It’s like one knot in his chest, out of the plethora of them, loosened. Like it became a bit easier to breathe. The beat reemerges to his conscience, rhythmic and inviting but still somehow fluid. He recalls that it was supposed to be Tsukishima’s set tonight, and it sounds just like him. A Very Tsukki Beat.

He gestures to his drink, “You want that? I just wanna dance.”

The owl takes the shot glass and downs it like it’s nothing, sliding out of his bar stool, and holds his hand out to him with a genuine smile. The brunette takes it, sliding out of his own, smile equally expectant.

He’s a bit wobbly on his feet but Bokuto’s firm yet gentle hand helps ground him. They’ve danced together a lot, the proximity familiar and reassuring. He has a presence both on and off stage.

The two DJs have a very different effect on the crowd though. While Bokuto tends to energize the mass no matter the night, the tantalizing beats making it virtually impossible not to follow his lead, Tsukishima seems to spend his effort on reading the atmosphere, the mood in the air, giving people what they didn’t even realize they wanted. His sense is almost chilling.

He’s bouncing on his feet before they even reach the front, bobbing his head to the beat, letting it consume him. He feels Bokuto give his hand a gentle squeeze when they stop, before releasing it. His hands are in the air almost immediately, head leaned back with his eyes closed. He pries them open slightly once the smell of artificial smoke fills his lungs again, only to see fluorescent lights, the world dulled by the thick smoke.

The energy of the crowd isn’t malignant, even though that’s where it generally tends to lead at events like these when people get pumped up. When Tsukishima plays, the crowd is anything but.

He rocks from side to side for a while, eyes blissfully closed, feet bouncing sharply, until he feels fingers softly tapping on his upper arm.

He opens his eyes to find Bokuto trying to gather his attention to the stage, where Tsukishima is fluidly bouncing, nimble fingers tweaking at the equipment in front of him. The sound is slowly bleeding into a different one, a melodic bass, the gaps in the previous beat gradually dying out. The two seem to have had a silent conversation, the blonde’s eyes shifting away from the owl to land on Oikawa with a meaningful look. His sharp eyes glint in the light before he adjusts his glasses, the barest hint of a grin on his face.

The feel is unusually dark for Tsukishima, but soon a voice which’s gender he can’t quite place cuts in.

_Relax your eyelids. Focus on the darkness._

It takes a beat to catch the meaning and he glances at Bokuto, but the owl’s eyes are already shut.

_Listen to your heart relax._

He looks back at Tsukishima, but his eyes are closed too.

_You don’t need to think about anything except being right here. Right in this moment with me._

He closes his.

_Don’t think about tomorrow, or yesterday. Just be here, in your body, in this moment._

Something tugs at him uncomfortably, and he can feel his heartbeat in his throat along with the new grinding sound. He tries to follow the words’ guidance.

_And focus your mind. Clear away all thoughts, tensions and suppressions. And now focus on your breathing. As you inhale, feel your chest expanding all the way from your stomach to your neck._

He holds his breath stubbornly, until the pressure hurts in his throat.

_And exhale, releasing the tension as you completely empty your lungs._

He tips forward slightly, complying with the sound of gusting breath.

_Inhale smoothly. And exhale smoothly…_

Some words are lost to distortion, but he keeps his breathing deep, lost in it.

_And keep the inhalation and exhalation even and smooth. All the way in, relax your shoulders, and all the way out, and continue breathing next._

A subtle melodic layer keeps building in the background, the grinding sound becoming more prominent until slowly ebbing away.

_Now contract your facial muscles, squeeze your lips together, and your eyelids, and your forehead, as hard as you can. Squeeze them tight. Keep breathing._

The beat morphs into a clearer rhythm, and he itches to bounce to it, barely keeping still, face burning.

_Relax all the rest of your body. And now release your face, and feel all the tension draining out of your face. Relax your mouth, and your eyes, and your forehead._

_And breeeathe._

He slowly starts bouncing on his feet again, feeling liquefied, previous bliss edging back onto the surface. The melodic layer has his body jutting from side to side again.

_Relax your eyelids. Focus on the darkness._

_Listen to your heart relax._

He keeps his breathing deep, his heart in sync with the beat.

_You don’t need to think about anything except being right here. Right in this moment with me._

_Don’t think about tomorrow, or yesterday._

His movements falter a bit.

_Just be here, in your body, in this moment._

His body.

His eyes go tight again.

_And focus your mind._

He focuses on breathing. There are no more words in the rhythm to focus on, so he listens to the subtle details in the music, feeling it thrum deep inside his ears.

His patience is wearing thin.

_Cancel it out._

He clings to the next exercise.

_Contract your chest, and your shoulders, and your arms, biceps, fists, chest, chin, neck, mouth, eyes, forehead, tense, and tight. And now release. Exhale._

Release. Release.

_Just be here, in your body, in this moment._

He bites into his cheek, gone still. Heartbeat in his throat.

_And now with your eyes closed, send your mind’s eye all around your body to check for tension. Starting from your feet, and traveling up through your whole body._

His eyes fly open, mind on his neck. His waist. His thighs.

_Search for any remaining tension. And release it. Release the tension. Order it away._

He blindly grips Bokuto’s sleeve, trying to keep breathing, small tremors surging through him. The following lyrics are lost to his ears.

Acid. Burning lungs.

There’s a gentle hand on his wrist, but his grip on the sleeve remains unfaltering. Suddenly the hand is warm on his cheek, and he locks eyes with worried shimmery gold, shying away and bumping into somebody behind his back, going further rigid.

Bokuto reaches his free arm around to steady him but decides otherwise, halting and settling for his forearm.

His eyes are searching Oikawa’s panicked ones, the mouth hanging wordlessly.

“Tooru, I’ve got you,” he says calmly and clearly. “Come with me.”

He starts backing away slowly, steering him away from the crowd by his hands in a hopefully grounding manner, Oikawa obtusely following suit.

Suddenly they’re outside, cold air hitting his lungs with a rush of oxygen.

His eyes find Bokuto’s with a gasp, releasing the now-wrinkled fabric of his dress shirt.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he hitches, hugging himself through the jacket, clenching his fingers, trying to breathe out.

_Fucking breathe out._

Head dizzy with the lack of oxygen, he stumbles back against the cool brick wall. He curls in on himself, eyes clenched shut, desperately trying to catch a full breath.

“Tooru,” the voice is gentle, but feels far away, covered in fog. “Tooru, it’s okay. Don’t be sorry.”

He tries to hold on to the voice but his strength is quickly evaporating, tremors running through his body. He pries his eyes open but his sight is blurred from the sheer strain.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

He clutches at his chest as if that would help fill it with air, gasps turning high-pitched with desperation. “Can’t-, I can’t-” _I can’t breathe_.

The slightest waver in Kou’s voice is lost to his panic.

“Should I call for an ambulance?”

Something snaps with remembrance, and he shakily reaches an arm out for Kou’s shirt, instantly enveloped in a firm embrace. A strong arm is supporting his waist, and he buries his nose in the crook of Kou’s neck, letting go of some of his strength. The familiar subtle vanilla scent is reassuring to his mind, if not yet his body.

“It’s okay, Tooru. I’m here.”

He focuses on the repeated words and the fingers gently trailing through the back of his hair, the soft cheek against his, the faintly discernible pulse against his nose. He attempts to close his mouth and breathe through his nose as he recalls how to stop hyperventilation, but it makes him gag in sharp pain. He buries his face with ragged breaths further into Kou’s neck, who tightens his hold in return.

His panic eventually starts to lose to Kou’s warmth, gasps gradually dying down in volume, slowly fading into occasional hiccups of breath. He loosens his hold on the front of his owl friend’s shirt, sliding his arms down his sides to his back with a stuttering sigh.

Kou slightly lessens the strength of his hold on Oikawa’s waist, running his hand over his back in slow circles, the other hand still in his hair, gently tracing the back of his head with his nails. Oikawa slumps forward into the caressing, the rush of adrenaline starting to subside, leaving him spent, sluggish.

“Are you feeling better?” his voice is laced thick with vaguely disguised concern.

Oikawa hums, slowly nodding against his neck, breathing deeper but still slightly uneven.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

He considers the thought for a moment.

“I just want to go home.”

Having said that, he makes no move to let go of Kou.

“Okay. Let’s go sit in my office for a moment then, I’ll call us a cab.” He fishes the key card out of his back pocket, to which Oikawa belatedly realizes that they’re by the back entrance. Kou guides him by his waist, opening the door with Oikawa’s help, but stops once they’re past the doorway. “Can I at least call Akaashi over? He knows way more of first aid than I do, maybe he can be of help.”

The worried glint in Kou’s gaze melts at the corners of his obstinate nature.

“Okay.”

He agrees more in thought of Bokuto’s wellbeing than his own.

The owl’s office is right down the hallway to the right, a relatively small windowless space littered with his work equipment, a transmitter on its charger, turned on but fixed to a neutral channel. Oikawa is sat down on the office chair behind the table, the comfortable padding making him lean back, arms lax. He nods at the offer for a water.

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

Oikawa hums in understanding and gives a thumbs up as Bokuto closes the door. He stares at the ceiling until he remembers the water. He turns his head back down, the motion making him reel forward, head heavy, but the glass feels inviting enough, with his throat still feeling raw. He leans back after finishing the glass, but doesn’t turn his head up anymore.

There’s a key card beep behind the door, Akaashi following Bokuto into the room.

Oikawa mutters a ‘sorry’ to the more docile owl for bothering him at work.

“It’s okay,” he answers with a soft smile, “Yamaguchi took over for the moment.” He crouches down in front of Oikawa, leaving some space between them. “Bokuto-san tells me you had a panic attack. May I feel your pulse?” he gestures to his forearm.

“Yeah,” he nods, pulling the sleeve of his jacket up a bit.

Akaashi takes ahold of his wrist, gently placing his middle and index finger to the side of his forearm.

“Feels a bit fast, still.” He draws the sleeve back down to his wrist, observing the brunette’s face. “Has this happened before?”

Oikawa pauses for a moment, biting into the inside of his cheek. He gives a small nod.

Akaashi hums in thought. “Your pupils look normal and your skin isn’t clammy. You haven’t had anything besides alcohol, am I right?”

“Yeah. I don’t think that’s it,” he hesitantly folds his arms over his stomach. _I don’t want to talk about this_.

Akaashi stays as calm and gentle a presence as always, either sensing not to push this, or complying with his general private nature.

“It’s most likely psychosomatic. If it becomes recurrent, I would suggest either consulting with your GP or a psychologist about this. High cortisol levels may affect your general wellbeing, as well as cause more serious conditions.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” he rushes, starting to regret his decision of agreeing to be looked over by Akaashi, “It’s not all that often.”

Akaashi gives Bokuto a leveled look, the latter glancing between them, not all that convinced.

“You looked, umm,” the owl glances at Oikawa, then turns back to Akaashi, “He looked on the verge of passing out, and uh, like in pretty bad pain,” he gathers the fabric on the front on his shirt into his fist, in imitation of how Oikawa had earlier.

Akaashi looks at them in thought. “For about how long did he hyperventilate? A minute? Longer?”

“Uuh,” Bokuto looks down, “Ten? Maybe fifteen? I was quite scared, I’m not all that sure…” Oikawa can feel the golden gaze on him from his peripheral vision. “I thought it wasn’t gonna stop, I was this close to calling an ambulance.”

Akaashi’s stare is back on Oikawa, studying his face, which has some of the anxiety starting to seep back in. “I think it’s best if you rest, you must be exhausted from the strain to your body.” He turns to Bokuto once again. “For now, besides fluids and keeping warm, and rest, I’m afraid I don’t have much advice.”

“Thank you, Akaashi,” he smiles faintly, “I’ll take him home.”

Akaashi gives a curt nod. “If there is anything I can help with, I’d be glad to. You have our numbers, Oikawa-san, and if it’s urgent, do call an ambulance.”

“Yeah, nurse’s orders,” Oikawa beckons, but sighs and adds a more serious “I will.”

Akaashi nods and makes to leave to return to his shift, giving Bokuto’s bicep a reassuring squeeze, to which the latter visibly deflates and says another ‘thank you’.

Akaashi leaving has an odd silence hanging in the air. Bokuto walks around the table to sit on the corner of it next to the brunette.

“Sorry, am I meddling too much?”

“Mm, it’s fine.”

The owl takes the phone from his pocket to dial a cab, halting on pressing the call button. “If there’s anything you want to talk about, you know I’m always here for you, right?”

Oikawa gives his most genuine smile of the night, void of any playful element, though laced with something distant. “Thank you.”

Oikawa has his forehead on his hands on the table throughout the call, Bokuto’s fingers comfortingly running through his hair again, drawing patterns on the back of his neck. The brunette’s shoulders start to relax again, lightly leaning into the touch. Bokuto’s fingers slow down beside his ear, ghosting over a patch of skin below it towards his jawline. Oikawa doesn’t notice the pause in movement, with the fingers soon returning to the back of his head with firmer presses.

“Seven minutes.”

Oikawa hums, raising his head to look across the room. “Bathroom.”

“Go, go,” Bokuto laughs slightly. “If you want more to drink, there’s an infinite amount of tap water.”

 

Oikawa doesn’t look at his reflection.

 

The cab is indeed there when they exit the building, Oikawa only then noting the other’s leather jacket that he appears to have retrieved from somewhere, pausing with his brows furrowed.

“Hey, sorry, weren’t you cold before?” he thinks back, to which the owl gives a dismissing wave. Oikawa has had his hoodie and jacket on the entire time, while Bokuto was in a silky dress shirt, bound not to be of very thick fabric.

They both sit in the back of the cab, the brunette slightly leaning into the owl’s side. Oikawa offers to pay for the cab, which Bokuto refuses, so they end up splitting the bill. Oikawa gives him more than half, Bokuto gives him change back. Oikawa pouts.

“Is Iwaizumi home?” the owl asks on their way up the stairs.

“I think so?” Oikawa is slightly shaky on his feet, leaning on the railing. “He was mostly sleeping off his shift, earlier, when I left him.”

“You alright? You look a bit short of breath again…”

“Fine, fine,” he waves dismissively. “Actually, quite alright, compared to earlier.” He doesn’t know if Bokuto is satisfied with this answer, eyes down on the steps in front of him, until his vision swims and there’s a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Sorry. Guess I really am quite exhausted.”

“We’re almost there, you’ll be able to sleep in just a moment.” The hand squeezes softly.

“Yeh,” he smiles back thin-lipped.

He manages the path to his door on his own, fishing for the keys, halting his hand, feeling around inside the pocket.

“Iwaizumi?” Bokuto calls out into the apartment once Oikawa has opened the door.

Oikawa gives him a pouty glare. “He might be sleeping, you know.”

There are slow steps coming from the living room, Oikawa twisting around suddenly and mouthing ‘don’t tell him’, before Iwaizumi emerges in the doorway, the chocolate brown fleece blanket around his shoulders.

“Sorry, Iwa-chan, were you sleeping?”

“Mm, no, watching a movie,” he yawns into the back of his hand, turning towards Oikawa more properly. “What’s wrong with him? He’s pale.”

“I’m right here, you know,” he replies fake dramatically, sighing, “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

Iwaizumi eyes Bokuto standing behind him critically, but doesn’t get an answer out of him, only apologetic gold.

The brunette turns to Bokuto, briefly touching his forearm, “I’ll be alright. Thanks.”

Bokuto glances at Iwaizumi, and decides for saying “Remember what Akaashi and I said.”

“Yeah,” he smiles with tired eyes, holding onto the doorframe of his room, “I remember. Good night.”

“Good night,” he answers and reluctantly steps out to make his way down the hallway to his and Kuroo’s apartment, giving Iwaizumi a tight-lipped smile before shutting the door.

As Oikawa is toeing off his shoes, Iwaizumi leans forward a bit against the doorway, the perpetual frown as present on his face as ever. Their hallway is miniscule, leaving the brunette feeling crowded.

“Did something happen today?”

“Like what?”

“Umm,” that leaves him baffled, unable to reply.

“Sorry,” he sighs, listless, “I’m not trying to give you temper.” He shuts his eyes against the doorframe and smiles morosely, “I don’t want to talk. Can I please just go to sleep?”

“Okay,” he answers with a note of dejection in his voice, blanket falling low on his shoulder.

 

Oikawa shuts his door, sinks to the floor, muffles his voice with the blanket, and wails into the crook of his elbow.


	2. Perturbed

_Perturb [v. (used with object)]_

_1\. to disturb or disquiet greatly in mind; agitate._

_2\. to throw into great disorder; derange._

 

“Eyyy bro,” the black cat leers, swinging the door open and leaning heavily on it, “You look cute with your glasses on.”

Oikawa hums with disinterest, sidestepping him, “Kuro-chan here looks less cute with my glasses on, though.”

The cat tilts his head. “That was an insult, wasn’t it.”

The brunette sticks his tongue out, toeing off his shoes. He stalks to their living room, hand on the strap of his laptop bag, already changed out of his schoolwear into the usual sweatpants and turquoise hoodie. “Kou-chan I’m gonna die.”

“Aww, why?” the owl looks up from the couch with a pouty face. “What would I do without my bro?”

“You have Kuro-chan.” He ignores the owl’s more emphasized pout. “But really,” he pads over and sits himself down next to Bokuto, opening his bag, “I literally. Forgot. I have an essay due. Midnight.”

Kuroo sits down on the brunette’s other side, eyeing his bag. “But weren’t you already gonna study for a test for tomorrow or something?”

“ _Yes._ Observant. Therein lies my point.” He sighs, “Could either of you like hit me upside the head with a brick or something so I could get out of this?”

“Nah, no can do man, we would never hurt you, would we, bro?” the cat leans over to look at the owl for affirmation.

“’Course not,” he still pouts. He ruffles Oikawa’s hair, giving a sad smile, “But at least we’re quite cuddly?”

Oikawa hums, leaning back, cradling his laptop in his arms. He sighs and opens it, reaching over for his bag to dig out some materials as well as a pen. It’s become a semi-regular routine, hanging out with the three of them at Bokuto and Kuroo’s apartment after Oikawa’s classes, with Iwaizumi added if he’s not at work. It most always involves comfy clothes, movies and pizza, sometimes alcohol if neither of them has work at night.

“Want me to turn the TV off for now?” Bokuto asks, patting around the blanket covering his legs for the remote.

“Mm, it’s fine if the volume’s on low.”

“Okay,” the owl nods, tweaking with the remote.

“I’m probably really actually gonna die soon if I don’t get some more coffee in my system, though,” he rubs at the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “But then again, I had some in the morning, and then some between classes…”

The cat hums against his side, “What say I make us some after this movie ends? If you still feel like it then?”

The brunette replies with a tired whine, nodding after a moment. “Ensue study night.”

They spend the time mostly in silence, Oikawa tapping away at his laptop and scattering notes around, Bokuto and Kuroo watching the movie on either side. Kuroo sometimes asks him questions about his homework, either of genuine interest or to provide some distraction isn’t sure.

“Tough test?”

“Ngh. Comparative Constitutional Law.” He sighs once again. “Why do legislations even exist, anyway.”

The cat hums back.

“Yeah dumb question. I’m not even dealing with that yet, though, still doing the essay. Social and Legal Philosophy.” His gaze toggles between a paper on the table and his word document, fingers tapping away.

“I don’t even know which sounds worse.”

“Me neither.” The brunette takes a deep breath, rubbing at his temple. “It is interesting, really. But the paragraphs are so word-to-word concrete, and if I mistake some term or number for another, I’m quite screwed.”

“I’m getting a second-hand headache.”

“Tell me about it,” the owl adds from the other side.

Oikawa’s stomach decides to take part in their discussion with a whiny growl, making him curl in on himself slightly.

The other two look at each other knowingly.

“Pizza?”

“Pizza.”

The brunette hums longingly, leaning back and closing his eyes, hands still on the keyboard.

“I gotchu, I gotchu,” the cat pats his knee. “Coffee too?”

“Yesh please.”

“Got it.”

Kuroo gets up off the couch to go to the kitchen corner, getting two frozen pizzas out the freezer to put them in the microwave. “I can stay to eat with you guys but then I gotta get ready for work,” he yawns, reaching over the counter to grab the kettle, filling it with water.

Oikawa’s fingers still on the keyboard. “Oh. You’re working tonight?” he looks over. “Sorry, I forgot.”

“Yep, the joys of adult life,” he sighs. “No probs.” He eyes the brunette’s apparent blue screen of death, hands hovering between the keyboard and pushing himself up off the couch. “Sit, sit,” the cat waves in his direction. “I got this. I was gonna make myself a cup anyways.”

He slowly settles back down, leaning back into the couch, rubbing at his eyes under the glasses.

“You making any progress?” the owl asks from his side, resting his chin on the brunette’s shoulder.

“Yeah, actually,” Oikawa faintly laughs, “quite some. Don’t ask me how.”

Oikawa keeps mindlessly typing away, analyzing and organizing quotes, rereading and rereading some sentences until they start making more sense. He sets his laptop and papers on the coffee table once Kuroo comes over with the pizzas, handing him a plate and one of the cups of coffee. “Thanks youu,” he sighs dreamily, almost forgetting the pizza and coffee are there to be consumed, not gawked at.

The black cat heartily laughs at the look on the brunette’s face, walking round the table to drape himself over Bokuto’s lap, lean legs dangling off the arm of the couch. The owl’s arm is automatically on his collarbone, thumb rubbing small circles above it. “Man you can’t do that to me, I’m never gonna wanna leave,” Kuroo’s eyes shudder closed for a moment, a sigh escaping, “You’re gonna make me late for work.” He reluctantly reaches for one of the plates off the table, offering it to Bokuto, then settling it on his stomach. The owl keeps drawing patterns on the slope of his neck while they all eat, the cat’s eyelids drooping.

“Married couple alert,” Oikawa whispers over a mouthful of pizza, hugging his legs to his chest.

“Hey! I’m a cat,” he humphs, “I need my daily dose of petting.” A small tremor runs through his arms, cheeks slightly gaining colour.

“You do realize the heavy sexual undertone in that statement?” the brunette smirks.

Hey, don’t tease my dear bro here,” the owl pouts, a bit of something serious and protective in it, as if shielding Kuroo from discomfort with the arm held on him. “If you’re jealous, you have me here all evening,” he gives the brunette a soft playful smile.

Kuroo hums, chewing with his eyes closed, shutting himself out of the discussion.

Oikawa is already rendered silent, however, smiling thin-lipped, poker face slightly worn out.

“Sorry,” the owl looks over sympathetically, nudging his shoulder with his own. “I know you can’t really relax, what with all that homework.”

“Huh?” he blinks. “Yeah.” He spaces out, gaze unfocused on his arsenal spread on the coffee table, a bite-sized piece of pizza left in his hand. Homework is tough and annoying, and he can keep and keep complaining about it to let off steam, but it’s never been reason enough to get him that down. He’s always done a spectacular job at it, good enough to earn him a scholarship and not have to work through college.

A pair of fingers tickling the back of his hand jolt him out of his dismay.

“There’s still food…” the cat trails off slowly, gesturing to the leftover piece in his hand. “Maybe you’ll feel a bit better with less depleted energy reserves?” Upside-down hazel examines his chocolate brown for a moment, Kuroo leaning his head back over Bokuto’s lap.

“I’m fine,” Oikawa looks ahead at nothing, slowly chewing the food. He can feel the other two’s stares on him but doesn’t return them.

The silence breaks with the owl’s small gasp. “Wait, bro, are you wearing my shirt?” he asks, mystified, like that entails some kind of universal paradox.

Kuroo looks down on himself with a small frown, as if he wasn’t aware of the fact.

Oikawa snorts. “You two have been holed up in here all day, how’d you just notice that _now_?”

Bokuto looks at the brunette with wide eyes, then back down at the ‘Owl always love you’ and the cute chibi owl drawing.

The cat looks away, shrugging in embarrassment, giving a tiny “It’s comfy.”

“Bet he just hasn’t been doing his laundry like a proper citizen should,” Oikawa yawns next to them, reaching for his laptop to open it again. “I should get back to work.”

“And I should get _to_ work,” Kuroo states loudly, rolling over on the owl’s lap to push himself up with the help of the other’s thigh, face lightly tinted pink, Bokuto’s arm sliding off him. “I’ll wash and give it back to you,” he adds with a resigned voice, finishing his coffee in one gulp and moving to wash the cup.

“It’s fine, bro,” Bokuto trails off with a sad edge to his voice, leaning forward, “I was just surprised I hadn’t noticed.”

The cat flashes a smile, disappearing into their bedroom.

Oikawa feels like there have been a lot of odd smiles going around lately, but doesn’t comment on it. He shortly finishes up with his essay, double-checking, saving and closing it, and organizing the materials for tomorrow’s test. Kuroo’s shuffling around can be heard in the background, until he peeks in from the doorway, waving them goodbye and wishing Oikawa luck for the test. Bokuto has switched to working on a set to upload on his channel, his own laptop open, eating some leftover pizza while leaning into the brunette’s side.

It’s still relatively early in the evening, as Silver Feather opens at 7PM on weekdays, Kuroo having to get there an hour earlier to set up. Even so, Oikawa is already getting braindead, having spent the morning and afternoon in classes, on top of the essay he finished earlier. Memorizing different countries’ legislations and their differences is starting to sound pretty overkill.

He taps Bokuto on the shoulder, the other removing his headphones with a quizzical look. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Their living room aka kitchen doesn’t have a balcony, so the only option is to smoke at the open window, letting a cold breeze into the room. The owl adjusts the gun metal blue fleece blanket higher up on his lap as Oikawa reaches for his bag.

The brunette leans on the windowsill on his forearms, lighting the cigarette in his mouth, inhaling deeply, following the smoke leaving his lungs almost hypnotized. He doesn’t hear the soft steps behind him, the palm between his shoulder blades making him jolt and inhale sharply.

He hates his body for overreacting.

“Sorry,” the owl lowers his hand, “didn’t mean to surprise you.”

Oikawa takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “It’s okay.”

Bokuto hums, leaning on the windowsill with his hip, blanket over his shoulders. “I was just, umm,” he hesitates, looking at the brunette’s hands, “I was just wondering…”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow at him, following his gaze.

“Umm, colour?” the owl’s voice sounds small.

“Oh,” he eyes the cigarette between his fingers, taking a half-hearted whiff. “I wouldn’t just randomly do it like this in front of you, you know.”

A frown pulls at his face, golden eyes thoughtful.

“Also it’s green. I don’t really even feel like it right now.” His tone is neutral, face blank. “Just taking some of the edge off.”

Bokuto hums again, pausing for a moment. “Have the last ones been healing alright? If I can ask?”

Oikawa subconsciously feels the fabric of his sweatpants over his hip and upper thigh. “Yeah? I mean,” he looks down, “there’s skin everywhere again. It’s just sort of, cracking, and reddish.” He hurries to correct, “Umm but it doesn’t hurt at all, or anything. And it looks a lot better compared to before.”

He doesn’t see the owl’s expression, as he’s placed his forehead on the brunette’s shoulder, sighing softly. “Sorry I’m so useless.”

“What? Hey,” he urges the owl to come out of hiding, gently patting his head. “Why would you think that? I’m really glad you’re here for me, and that I can talk to you about this.”

A semi-pained hum.

“And you know these are like, over two months old, right?” he leans his cheek on the top of the owl’s head. “And, uh, I said I’d give you a colour, if it’s bad, and I haven’t done it since that time.” He sighs. “Sorry.”

“Huh?” he looks up.

“Aren’t I, you know,” the brunette sighs self-deprecatingly, “emotionally heavy? Sorry for weighing you down with this.”

“Don’t feel bad about that,” Bokuto hooks his elbow around his, leaning on him slightly. “I just wish I could help somehow, besides, you know, just existing.”

“That’s more than enough,” he breathes in the smoke.

The stay in comfortable silence, Oikawa finishing his cigarette and putting it out on the ash tray. After a while, Bokuto starts playing with the sleeve of the brunette’s hoodie, slightly jittery.

“What is it?”

“I was just wondering…” he trails off.

Oikawa laughs at him light-heartedly, “What else were you wondering?”

“Shouldn’t you quit smoking? If it’s, like… isn’t it triggering?” he stops playing with the fabric, smoothing down the sleeve.

Oikawa hums, pondering on that thought. “It can be, sometimes.” He sighs slowly, “It’s just comforting, somehow. To know that I could, but that I choose not to.” He looks down at himself, “I like having them on me.”

Bokuto nods in thought, gathering the blanket more around him over his shirt.

“Getting cold? Wanna sit back down?”

“Mmhmm.”

Oikawa closes the window, taking the pack of cigarettes and lighter and putting them back in his bag. He takes his laptop from the table but waits with opening it.

“You didn’t tell Kuro, did you?”

The owl sits himself down next to him. “About last Saturday? I haven’t told anyone. Well, besides Akaashi.”

The brunette smiles faintly, sighing.

“Tsukki asked about you, though,” he looks over, ghosts of the same worry in his eyes.

Oikawa sighs again, stronger. “What did you say?”

“Umm, not much,” he leans back on the couch, “since I figured you wouldn’t really want me to? Or at least I didn’t know for sure…”

Oikawa looks into the distance.

“Well, he did ask what had happened,” the owl is slightly jittery, “but uh, since I didn’t really reply with anything, he said it’s fine and that I don’t have to explain, and then he asked if you’re okay, and, I said you did feel a bit better later.” He fiddles with the blanket, searching for the brunette’s gaze, “Was that bad?”

“What?” he twists around, “No, of course not.” He places a palm on the owl’s, “Sorry for always troubling you.”

“That’s what friends are for, eh?” he bumps his shoulder into the brunette’s. “No biggie.”

They share a knowing smile, neither wanting to hurt the other but both understanding it’s inevitable in close relationships like these.

Oikawa rubs his thumb over the other’s knuckles after a bit. “How about you? How’re you holding up?”

Bokuto’s expression contorts slightly, swiftly switching back to neutral. “You mean Akaashi?” Something about his voice is off-tune from the change of subject.

The brunette doesn’t say anything, expression serious.

“It’s fine. It’s always _been_ fine.” His voice is slightly strained, receiving a frown. “There’s nothing I can do about it, I don’t think, but,” he swallows heavily, “as long as he’s happy, I’m happy, so-”

“Bullshit.”

“And what do _you_ know,” he laughs bitterly, “it’s not like _you_ ’ve been in love with one of your best friends for years, unrequited, having to stomp it down to be able to be there for them and not show it.” He doesn’t notice the twitch of Oikawa’s hand. “I can’t just go and tell him and change, or ruin, the entire years of memories he has of us, and make him feel like he has to be on guard around me or something, or make him pity me, or,” he sighs heavily, “I know, I know he’s kind, he’d still continue to be my friend, but I’m sure he’d subconsciously cut some of our contact to make it easier on me, and I don’t want to bother him with all of this, I just-”

Bokuto stops his spree of emotions when he notices that the brunette’s turned away from him, hands clutched over his mouth. The smallest amount of anger that had been present evaporates when he sees a tear running down the brunette’s cheek.

“Hey, sorry,” his voice softens considerably, “I didn’t mean to go off on you like this-”

Oikawa shakes his head, chest hitching with the effort of holding back his gasps and the burning behind his eyes, laptop starting to slide off his thighs. Kou catches and puts it on the table for him, eyes studying what he can see of his face, but the brunette turns further away, choking back a sob at the feeling of a tentative hand on his back.

“You’re-”

Oikawa’s voice cuts off with a broken sob. There are arms winding around his waist, palms flat against the fabric, a soft cheek against the back of his neck. He doesn’t understand the reason behind the ‘sorry’s repeatedly whispered by his ear. He leans back into it slightly hesitantly, the warmth on his skin oddly grounding, receiving a tightened hold in return. He breathes in as far as he can, releasing the grip on his mouth, surprised at the clarity of his own voice.

“You’re slowly dying inside, aren’t you?”

He feels Kou go rigid behind him, holding his breath, heartbeat fast against his upper back.

“I am, too.”

The whisper makes Kou loosen his grip on the brunette’s waist, grasping for his shoulder to turn him around. Oikawa languidly complies, face turned down, vacant.

“Wait, that-,” Kou stammers once the meaning begins to illuminate, “that means-”

Once the brunette raises his eyes, Bokuto is faced with the most heartbreaking lop-sided smile he’s ever seen. His brain functions take a moment to catch up.

“Why have you never told me?” he eventually finds his voice, low-spirited. He thinks back on the times he vented to Oikawa about this, trying to find clues he perhaps should have noticed. But Oikawa is notorious for his poker face, being the one reading everyone else like an open book, but almost getting others to believe he himself isn’t even a book in the first place. Something is different this time.

“I haven’t told anyone,” the brunette’s voice is rueful. He breathes a laugh that sounds far too hollow to be qualified as one. “You didn’t tell me until quite recently, either.”

“But you pretty much knew,” Kou trails off, absent-minded, having difficult taking all this in. There’s only one person he could have meant, that part is not even a question. But.

Oikawa silently reaches for him with an arm outstretched, Kou wrapping the blanket around them both, winding his arms around the brunette’s shoulders. He softly runs his hand up and down Kou’s back, the comforting warm vanilla filling his lungs.

“How long?” he asks after a while of just breathing.

Oikawa breathes out sharply through his nose. “Long. Years.” He burrows further into Kou’s neck, who slightly sags against him.

“Sorry,” Kou’s voice is filled with empathy.

Oikawa gives a half-hearted shrug.

They stay there, trying to ease each other’s discomfort through the physical contact, until Oikawa breaks the silence with a sigh.

“Fuck Comparative Constitutional Law.”

It takes a moment for Bokuto to catch the meaning. “Oh right, you have a test in the morning.”

“Yeah,” the brunette eyes his laptop on the table next to the owl’s with a frown.

Bokuto nudges the brunette’s shoulder with his chin. “You’re staying over, right?”

“If that’s alright.”

“Of course.”

Oikawa sighs, opening his laptop. “Re-ensue study night.”

 

Once it’s past midnight and the sentences have virtually ceased to contain meanings in Oikawa’s mind, he blearily suggests they go to sleep.

Their things are left as they are, both tending to their night routines, which entails mostly just brushing their teeth and Oikawa setting his alarm for the morning, and wordlessly settle in Bokuto’s bed. As they have, time and time again, which is most of their reason to stay the night, as Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s apartment is right down the hall.

Bokuto settles under the blanket on the side of the wall, holding it up for the brunette to follow suit. Oikawa pulls the hoodie off his head and climbs onto the bed, facing away but shifting slightly closer to him, which the owl takes as his cue to wind an arm around his waist over the blanket.

It doesn’t take long for Bokuto to fall asleep, with the comfortable warmth alongside him and the hair brushing his nose.

Oikawa, however, can’t help but feel agitated somehow, heartbeat faster than he’d like it to be and mind stuck on his breathing. He can’t help but try not to let his breaths stutter or fall out of pace. It keeps him awake.

He spends a while trying to focus on Kou’s breathing, the hint of a heartbeat he feels against his back. He tries adjusting his position slightly, to be able to let his muscles relax more, so as not subconsciously having to hold any part of himself up.

He curses his body for not corresponding with his mind, then wondering if it’s actually his mind at fault in this case. He can’t recall ever having any negative feelings about sleeping next to Kou, nor can he detect any of that now. He wants to be here, rather than sleep alone.

On a level it suddenly clicks why this may be, but they were lengthily hugging just earlier with no problems.

It makes Oikawa frustrated with himself, being exhausted as he is and not getting the sweet release of unconsciousness.

After a while he gives up, ever so slowly raising the blanket along with Bokuto’s arm, so as not to disturb the man’s sleep. He shimmies out from under the covers, gently laying the owl’s arm back down. He pads back to the living room slash kitchen, settling back on the sofa, wrapping the fleece blanket around himself. He spends a moment staring at his sleeping computer on the table, wishing they could exchange places.

His thinking whether or not he should try studying again is cut short, as he hears a key fumbling at the direction of the front door. Soon enough, there’s a spiky bedhead peeking at him from the doorway.

“Eyyy, man,” he ruffles his hair further, “I thought you two’d be asleep by now.”

Oikawa smiles tiredly. “Yeah, Kou-chan’s sleeping, ‘s far as I know.”

He approaches the visibly tired brunette, setting his work bag down by the couch and working on his jacket. “What’re ya doin’ up?”

He replies with a sigh. “Can’t sleep.”

“Ah.” Kuroo sits down next to him, leaning into the couch with his side, hair falling onto his face. He puffs it away. “Is something up?”

“Like what?” Oikawa hopes this would shut him up, as it tends to invoke blue screen of death in most people, for some reason.

“Hmm, I dunno,” the cat mulls over it. “I just tend to not be able to sleep well when something’s bothering me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“So there is something.”

Oikawa gives him a weak glare.

“Alright, alright,” the cat holds his hands up in defeat. He lowers them back down in thought. “Do you want some tea or something? Or wanna watch a movie?”

“Aren’t you like, dead tired?” the brunette asks with a smaller voice than intended.

“Meh,” he waves a dismissive hand at him.

“Thanks, but,” he slides further down the couch, “I think I’ll just try again, maybe I’ll fall asleep this time.”

“Alright.” The cat yawns widely, covering it with the back of his hand, sitting up properly. “You sleeping in Bokuto’s bed?”

“Was attempting to, yes.” He accepts Kuroo’s outstretched hand, letting it pull him up.

“Alright.”

Oikawa feels a slight rush of dizziness, but doesn’t let it bother him, making his way back to the bedroom after Kuroo. He moves carefully, trying not to make any loud sounds so as not to wake the owl, but his efforts are ruined when Kuroo suddenly crashes into his bedside cupboard, hissing loudly.

“Shittyyy fuck, that hurt.”

“Shhh!” Oikawa hisses back, but Bokuto is already rousing behind him.

“Nnngh? Kuro?” he rubs at his eye with the heel of his palm. It takes a moment for him to notice the brunette standing by the bed, looking down at him with a guilty expression.

“Sorry, Kou-chan, sorry,” Oikawa pleads softly, “didn’t mean to wake you.”

He groans in response, voice heavy with sleep. “What’re you doin’ up?” He eyes Kuroo shuffling with his clothes in the background.

“Just couldn’t sleep, so I got up for a moment,” the brunette says while getting under the covers, “No big deal.”

“Oh.” Bokuto pouts slightly in concern. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” he smiles tight-lipped, though not sure if Bokuto can see it.

“Okay.” He rests his head back down on the pillow, raising an arm to gently rub at the brunette’s shoulder.

Oikawa sighs, relaxing slightly, shuffling more towards the warmth of his friend. He feels the arm shift and coil around his waist under the blanket, settling across his stomach. An unpleasant shiver runs down his spine, making him breathe through his chest rather than his stomach, keeping as still as possible. The arm is warm and sturdy, but somehow doesn’t possess the comfortable weight it usually does, making him feel trapped under it, between the hold and the warmth along his back.

He ends up counting his breaths, in 1-2, out 1-2, his heartbeat uncomfortable in his throat. His eyes travel over to Kuroo’s bed on the other side of the room, but the cat’s eyes are closed, though he doesn’t look asleep yet. His own eyes are painfully unblinking, zooming in and out of focus when he should actually blink. The tremor running through his arms makes him clench them against the sheets, trying to hide it.

_Why can’t I just. Fucking. Manage. Normal things in my life._

_I’m stronger than this._

_I’m not even-_

_I don’t even care about that._

“Hey,” the hand on his stomach moves to his side, and he feels Bokuto sit up behind him. “Hey, you’re shivering.”

Oikawa closes his eyes, attempting to relax out of it, or at least pretend it’s not what’s happening. The tremors don’t stop.

“You’re not cold, are you?”

He can hear the voice growing from soft to a little frantic, gentle fingers brushing hair back from his forehead, and another set of them feeling its temperature.

“I can’t tell. Is that normal.” He open his eyes slightly to see Bokuto feeling his own forehead too. “Kuro-”

“-’m fine. I’m fine,” the brunette breathes, feeling raw facing the worry in the owl’s eyes, having to look away again. He pushes the side of his face into the pillow.

“Wait, sorry, did I-,” Bokuto stammers, “did I do that? Were you uncomfortable?”

“Nn-, no.” He can’t help the automatic ‘no’ that comes out of his mouth.

“Are you sure? Do you want-,” his voice is laced with concern, “I can sleep on the couch?”

Oikawa takes a moment to just breathe, trying not to regulate it so strictly, feeling slightly nauseous. He wills his mind to start working normally again.

“Stay.”

He feels Bokuto tentatively lie back down, leaving some space between them. As much as the small bed will allow.

“I’ll go the moment you want me to, yeah?”

Oikawa takes a deep breath, holding it for a second. His voice is small. “Actually, can I try something?”

Bokuto shifts slightly. “Of course. What is it?”

Oikawa slowly, gingerly, turns around to face Kou. “Umm,” he lifts his head and an arm, motioning for Kou to lie back so he could rest his head on the slope of his shoulder, placing an arm in the middle of his chest. His voice sounds slightly fragile. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” he wraps an arm around the brunette’s back in return, nuzzling into the top of his head. “Does this feel better?”

The brunette hums in agreement, leaning into his side, tremors still there but slightly less frequent.

This is the first time their cuddling is this intimate, having spooned on occasion before, or lied with one of their heads on the other’s lap, but not with this extensive area of contact. Oikawa wonders if Bokuto has ever been like this with Kuroo, or perhaps someone else, because he hasn’t. Not with anyone he’s dated, nor otherwise. He wasn’t sure if this would help calm him or make it worse, but his heartbeat has gradually started to settle, with the firm thrumming emanating from Kou’s chest grounding him.

Kou has shifted to carding his fingers through the chocolate brown strands, alternating between softly tugging and gently running his nails down the back of his neck. Oikawa feels his limbs getting heavy, exhaustion pressing behind his eyelids.

The fingers move to the side of his jaw by his ear, thumb rubbing gentle circles into a patch of skin almost reverently, but the brunette is too out of it to decipher any of the gesture’s significance. There’s an intake of breath from Kou, as if he wants to say something, but that something dies on his tongue. Oikawa is taken by sleep, mind on the gentle caresses with a misplaced sense of guilt towards it.

This is one of the rare nights that Oikawa shall sleep well, for the foreseeable future.

 

The week has rolled back to another Friday, Oikawa predictably acing his test – _still fuck Comparative Constitutional Law_ – and he gets invited to a board game slash booze night by Matsukawa and Hanamaki. He’s more mentally fatigued than physically, but he always looks forward to spending time with the pair. They just moved to the dormitory recently, since their previous apartment was too far from campus.

Oikawa and Hanamaki have one of their general courses together in the afternoon, so they walk back together to meet Matsukawa halfway, at a grocery store close by.

“How’ve you been though?” the slightly beady-looking eyes catch him. “Haven’t gotten ahold of you since last Friday.”

“Oh,” he laughs, slightly hollow, “sorry. I’ve been really busy this week.”

Hanamaki doesn’t look completely satisfied, tilting his head as they walk. “You look a bit pale, too,” he adds seriously, eyeing the brunette’s hands tucked in his pockets and the scarf up to his nose. “Do we need to feed you,” his voice turns teasing, “actually yeah we’re gonna feed you properly tonight. Be prepared.”

“Makkiii-,” the brunette whines.

“Don’t you ‘Makki’ me or I’m gonna go full maMakki on you,” the pink-brown evil person laughs.

“Makki no,” Oikawa fakes exasperation.

“MaMakki yes~.”

Oikawa fakes screaming into the abyss.

They meet Matsukawa soon enough, who is waiting by the entrance with a silent wave in their direction. A hoarding of snacks ensues – so much for proper eating – and Hanamaki picks out a protein drink for Oikawa. What good that’s going to do to his general well-being, ask the universe. Oikawa has been going for morning runs semi-daily, but that’s cardio. Protein doesn’t mesh much with cardio. Oh well, at least they taste good.

They register Oikawa as guest down at reception, carrying the grocery bags up to the fifth floor, Oikawa finishing his protein drink with one hand.

When they get to their room, the world stops spinning on its axis for a moment.

“Hey there.”

Oikawa can’t bring himself to reply, nor to wave, nor to even nod. His face is blank.

“Oh right,” Hanamaki turns to him, “sorry, I forgot to tell you that our box mates would be joining today.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Matsukawa’s lower voice cuts in.

“Right, sorry, I forgot.” He points over at the couple sitting by the kitchen table, “But you’ve already met them, right? We were all out together last Friday too.”

“Right.”

“Though Mattsun’s gonna be going to his evening shift at six, which is,” he looks at his phone, “in about two hours, and,” he looks back over at them, “she had somewhere to be, too? Later?”

“Yes, I’ll be meeting a friend when she calls me. I don’t know the exact time yet.”

The conversation keeps flowing, ebbing in and out of Oikawa’s focus, who somehow now manages his poker face near perfectly again, joining in on the card game with pointless jokes. He can’t feel his heartbeat, and the gin tastes like nothing. He doesn’t take any food. He goes to the laptop on the kitchen counter, browsing for different music, finding difficulty sticking with any particular set. He feels heavy on his feet, returning to the table.

He eyes Matsukawa leaving, waving them good-bye, and sees the woman fiddle with her phone, soon leaving too.

Time doesn’t feel like it’s working right.

The atmosphere is too normal.

Oikawa feels like hitting himself on the head.

“Oh wait, Mattsun left his wallet.”

“Huh?” Oikawa almost doesn’t understand the words.

“I’m gonna go take it to him, then I’ll be right back.”

“Wait,” Oikawa calls out, “don’t go. Let’s play another game.”

“Can’t. He’ll be in trouble in case someone decides to verify his license.”

“That’s never happened before, right?”

“Still. I’ll be right back, dear,” pink muses, “wait up for me.”

Oikawa stays perfectly still, hearing the clattering of keys and loud steps, faintly registering the ‘bye-bye’, hearing the door click shut.

 

They’re alone.

 

His mind is blank, pushing himself up with the help of the table to go to the computer, lowering his head to focus in on the music he left open earlier, switching from one song to another. His eyes lose focus soon, just scrolling down the page.

The voice is way too close to his ear.

“The trip to there and back is almost an hour, right?”

He wonders if his lungs are still breathing.

The hand on his lower back would send a nauseating chill down his spine, but his muscles are completely still. It snakes under the waistband of his boxers, straight to his entrance, rubbing slow circles on it.

It feels so much like nothing that it almost isn’t even there in reality.

 

“I said next time is your turn, didn’t I?”


	3. Disconcerted

_Disconcerted (adj.)_

_1\. disturbed, as in one's composure or self-possession; perturbed; ruffled._

 

Oikawa sits under the running water, temperature nearly scalding, clothes heavily sticking to his skin. He rests his elbows on his knees, leaning his head back, letting the water run down his face, flattening his hair to his skin. He closes his eyes against it, breathing through his mouth. He spits against the intruding streams of water, hanging his head down, letting the pressure hit the back of his neck. He breathes slowly, in until his lungs burn with the strain, out until there’s nothing left, suffocation making his chest shudder.

_It’s almost a week._

Pausing for a numb second, he works to pull the sleeve of his hoodie up, examining what he manages to reveal of his skin. He traces the phantom bite marks that littered the better part of his forearm.

He clenches his arms over his midsection, leaning his forehead on the floor, the water running up his face half-suffocating him.

The tears won’t come.

 

There are soft knocks on the door of Oikawa’s room. In his semi-conscious, lethargic state, he doesn’t immediately register that he should respond. The knocks repeat once more, still just as soft. He feels as if he could pretend not to exist if he just stayed quiet and still.

A muffled call of his name can be heard through the door.

“Yeah,” he replies, opening his eyes, the blanket still pulled up to his chin.

The door clicks open, revealing his best friend, who takes a tentative step forward.

“Hey,” the voice is gruff but somehow gentle, “didn’t know you were home.”

Oikawa doesn’t reply, remaining expressionless behind the shielding blanket.

“Are you feeling sick?” he comes closer to the brunette’s bed, leaning over him slightly. “Makki said you missed class.”

“I’m fine,” he breathes. “It’s just one day.”

“He also said he hasn’t been able to get ahold of you. Did you have a fight?”

Oikawa closes his eyes against the nauseating feeling at the back of his throat, pushing his cheek further into the pillow. “I wouldn’t miss class over a fight.” He can feel the heavy presence over him, expectant for answers, unrelenting. His heartbeat is uncomfortable in his throat. He clenches his hands under himself.

The sudden closeness of the voice makes him jolt almost imperceptibly.

“Hey,” the voice is barely a whisper, “really, are you feeling alright?”

He feels the prickling behind his eyes, throat uncomfortably tight against it.

Oikawa feels a sense of guilt being this close to him, as if just that would already taint him, spread his _unclean_ , dirty him with it.

_Please just go away._

There’s a gentle pat on his head, making him go still. The fingers softly brush his hair back, and he faintly registers what is coming next. Iwaizumi has this habit of checking for fever. Eyes still closed, he feels the forehead carefully settle against his, as if it’s the only thing really linking him to this material world, grounding him like nothing he knows could.

_Please, please don’t leave._

The link parting from the brunette leaves him feeling much emptier than before. He bites into his cheek, chewing on it to keep breathing. A stuttering sigh ends up escaping his lips when the hand returns to his hair, softly carding through it. He zones out, limbs relaxing considerably, exhaustion from bad sleep quality pressing behind his eyes.

“Have you had anything to eat?” the mesmerizingly gentle voice continues. “You haven’t been out of your room for hours now.”

Oikawa gives a weak shake of his head, mind swimming in and out of focus.

“Do you want me to make some milk bread? I think we still have everything.” The hand is still moving in a comforting motion, thumb coming to slowly stroke down the brunette’s temple.

It takes Oikawa a long moment to answer. He doesn’t want it to stop. When he eventually opens his eyes, they focus on nothing. “Aren’t you tired? What time is it?”

The hand settles on his shoulder. “Past four, but I’m fine.” He receives a warm smile, though the complexion beneath it reads fatigue, and something slightly darker than that. “I wasn’t gonna go to sleep yet anyways.”

Oikawa hums, looking back down. He feels slightly bad about it, but it looks like it would make Iwaizumi happy. He pushes himself up on his elbows, "I’ll eat."

As expected, Iwaizumi’s smile is warm and genuine, eyes vibrant in the light, this time the hue shining more green than grey.

 

Oikawa leans back into the couch, gathering the grey fleece blanket tight around himself, pushing his arms down around his stomach, slightly slumping to the side. He glances at Iwaizumi’s back, who is busy gathering the ingredients and a mixing bowl onto the counter, letting his face go lax. He can let his expression be just as dead as it is if no one’s watching.

“Vanilla? No vanilla?”

Oikawa’s face contorts for a second, surprised that he was addressed. He thinks for a moment, “Vanilla.”

“Got it,” he hears the faint hum of a melody in the tone.

Oikawa tries to distract himself with the documentary about deep space that’s playing on his laptop, but he has already seen this one before, so it barely registers as anything more than background noise. He leans his head back against the fabric, closing his eyes but reopening them soon after. Something feels weird.

He looks down at his arms through the opening in the blanket, and notices them shivering slightly. He feels like he’s looking at someone else’s hands. His face drops, but his breathing is strangely even. He realizes that he’s probably on the verge of getting distant, but then a sweet smell hits his senses, light and airy. _Vanilla_.

He decides to ignore the feeling that’s trying to swallow him up, pushing himself up and off the couch, stalking to where Iwaizumi is, leaving the blanket behind.

“Do you want some help?” he asks, leaning onto the counter with his hands.

“Mmm,” Iwaizumi hums playfully, side-eyeing the brunette, “then here, you can mix these.” He slides the rest of the ingredients – except milk – towards Oikawa, dealing with the roux himself.

Oikawa is silently thankful for the simple task, mashing the powdery substance down and around to mix in the eggs. Iwaizumi dips in from the side to add in milk from time to time, after having added the roux.

Once the dough is finished, they go back to the couch while it sits for a while, letting the yeast do its work doubling the dough in size. Oikawa feels restless just sitting there, feeling like his edges are cracking away with every second of silence. He turns to push himself up off the couch.

“Do you want some tea?” he tries with a leveled voice. “Or, or did we have any milk left?”

Iwaizumi pushes a yawn back with his palm, “Mm, yeah. Almost a whole bag.”

“Oh, then we could make hot chocolate. Want some?”

“Sure. Sounds great,” he smiles at the brunette, head resting on the back of the couch, eyes drooping slightly.

Oikawa stills for a moment, looking down at the obvious fatigue present on the other’s face. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to sleep?”

Iwaizumi lets out a slow sigh, gaze somewhere far away. “I don’t want to sleep.” He looks like he really needs it, but the brunette doesn’t find it in him to argue. “This is nice, though,” the gaze returns to him, “spending time with you like this.”

Something clenches at Oikawa’s chest, and he isn’t sure if it’s pain or happiness. He feels inexplicably glad and proud, to invoke such feelings in the person he cares most about, even if it’s just a simple sentiment. Deep down, however, he shrinks beneath this gaze, unworthy and so, so dirty. Unclean. He tears his eyes away, turning towards the kitchen corner with a quiet ‘I’m glad’.

Oikawa warms the milk up on the stove, deliberately breathing in the sweet scent to distill the bitter feeling inside. It’s ready sooner than he would like.

“How is your knee?” Iwaizumi asks while gratefully sipping at his mug of sweet liquid, glancing at the brunette’s mug on the table. “You’ve been protective of it lately.”

Oikawa looks down at it, as if visual information would give him a clue as to how to answer. He rubs at his thigh subconsciously, stopping abruptly. “It’s alright. Just a little sore.”

Iwaizumi frowns, not looking too convinced. “Try not to put too much strain on it.” When the brunette shrugs minutely, he offers, “Have you tried wearing your knee supporter again?”

“Just when I run,” he holds onto the thigh, sighing. “I’ll try wearing it when I just go outside next time.”

Iwaizumi nods in agreement. He twirls the liquid around inside the mug, watching it rock from side to side in thought. “If you want, I could massage it for you? Like I used to in high school when it hurt, maybe increasing circulation in the area would-”

“No, no-,” he cuts in, waving his hand, “it’s not that bad in the first place-”

“But you’ve been holding back your limp,” he interrupts, “I can see it.”

Oikawa stills, face falling a bit. Had it been that obvious? Or is Iwaizumi just that perceptive? Or is it that Iwaizumi is just paying that much attention to him?

“Yeah, it hurts,” he laughs a little bitterly, “even if I don’t put weight on it. But what does me admitting that change?”

Iwaizumi isn’t taken aback by the sarcasm. “Is it swollen?”

Oikawa sighs, shrugging.

“Show me.” It sounds more like a request than a command.

Oikawa just sits still, letting Iwaizumi pull up the leg of his sweatpants far enough to expose his knee. The tentative fingers feeling around it are pleasantly cool, though it hurts slightly. In the background, he feels his chest twinge more painfully than his knee.

“Lie back,” Iwaizumi guides him to lie down with his legs hanging over the arm of the couch.

Oikawa silently complies, too tired to complain, and deep down aware that he should be taking better care of his health. He eyes Iwaizumi walking to his room, returning with a pillow and gesturing it towards the brunette’s legs, who helpfully holds them up. Iwaizumi goes somewhere again, this time returning with a towel and an ice pack, carefully wrapping the towel around his knee before laying the ice pack over it.

“Stay still for like 10-20 minutes,” he says, sitting back down by the brunette’s head.

Oikawa sighs again, the amount of bite lesser in his voice, “You sure you’re fine with my feet on your pillow?”

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow, ignoring the question. “Also you’re banned from running for the time being.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Silence hangs in the room, Oikawa staring at the ceiling, Iwaizumi sipping at his hot chocolate. Oikawa’s is still lying forgotten on the table.

“You don’t want yours?”

“Huh?” the brunette tilts his head back, following Iwaizumi’s gaze to the table. “Oh. Yeah, I’ll drink it.” He raises his head and reaches out an arm, Iwaizumi leaning forward to help hand the mug to him. “Thanks,” Oikawa fakes strain, tilting his head forward and working his abs to take a careful sip of the now-lukewarm liquid.

After a while, Iwaizumi leans slightly over him, eyeing the ice pack. “How does it feel?”

Oikawa hums. “Sort of weird.” He tries flexing his leg, “But I think it’s working, a bit.”

Iwaizumi hums back. “I think it’s enough for now, or it might get too cold. But you should do another 10-20 minutes or so later.”

“Yeah.”

Iwaizumi stands up to remove the ice pack, carefully removing the towel after. He examines the skin for a moment, nodding slightly, then pulling the leg of the pants back down to the brunette’s ankle.

“You stay put,” he turns to walk towards the kitchen corner, “I’ll deal with the dough.”

Oikawa hears some cabinets clack, eyes back on the ceiling. He folds his arms over his stomach, flexing his leg again, trying to locate where exactly the pain is. It seems to radiate when he moves, so he opts for staying still for now. Tilting his head back, he gets an upside-down view of Iwaizumi, hands apparently kneading the dough. He closes his eyes, recurrently pinching his sides through his hoodie.

He drifts.

_Don’t be kind to me. I shouldn’t accept it. You wouldn’t be kind to me if you knew what I’m like. If you knew what I feel for you. You’d never want to touch me if you knew what all I’ve touched. What all I’ve done. I should shut you out so you don’t get tainted. But that would probably hurt you. No, I should think of what is best for you._

_“This is nice, though. Spending time with you like this.”_

_But he needs me-_

_He doesn’t need you. You’re nothing. You’re dirty. You’re soiled. You spread this filth everywhere around you. You taint everyone you come in contact with. You’ve already tainted him with your filth. With your gross body. With your gross mind._

_I shouldn’t touch you. I shouldn’t let you touch me._

_Kill it._

_Kill it, kill it._

_I don’t matter, I will do whatever is best for you._

_If only I knew what that-_

There are steps approaching, making Oikawa open his eyes abruptly.

Iwaizumi ignores the squeak the brunette makes while he roughly ruffles his hair, albeit stopping soon, smoothing it down again and looking into the distance. “You know you can tell me things, right?”

Oikawa feels like he’s choking on his breath, covering his head with his hands. He feels Iwaizumi lean back into the sofa by his head, putting all his effort into conjuring some composure.

“You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

Oikawa bites into his lip, happy but feeling so, so tight in his chest at the same time. It scrapes at his insides.

“You know especially with your knee, you shouldn’t.”

A wet laugh escapes the brunette’s lips, breaths slightly higher in pitch.

_I’m the one who’s supposed to support you._

_Why am I the one being supported?_

Oikawa takes a deep breath and slowly lowers his hands away from his face, aiming a tight-lipped smile at his dearest person, a tear making it past the corner of his eye towards his ear. He roughly wipes it away, turning away from Iwaizumi’s concerned expression, closing his eyes and laughing wetly, voice hollow.

_He must be surprised, haha, ‘cause I haven’t cried in front of him in years._

“Tooru.”

The voice is gentle yet morose, accompanied by a hand in the brunette’s hair, another brushing knuckles down his cheekbone. The slightest sign of interest at the contact he feels in his abdomen makes him feel sick about himself. Tears are falling freely now, his breathing deeper than usual but oddly calm. The fingers switch to brushing his hair back off his face, the other settling flat on his forehead. Oikawa just keeps breathing, unable to will himself to protest.

Iwaizumi leans down, cheek against the side of the brunette’s head.

“I’m sorry.”

Oikawa can’t help but laugh out, genuinely baffled. “Why are _you_ sorry?”

“I should have-, well,” he burrows further into the brunette’s hair, “I mean I know, I _knew_ , that something wasn’t quite right.” He sighs shakily, “You look worn out, you’ve lost weight-”

“Lost weight? What are you talking about?” Oikawa opens his eyes, turning his face more towards Iwaizumi’s. He feels like he’s more gained than lost some, feeling grossly soft around his stomach and thighs.

“You haven’t noticed?” Iwaizumi releases the brunette’s hair and forehead, leaning up on his hands.

“No. What are you talking about?”

They stare at each other in mutual disbelief, Oikawa pushing up on his elbow. He gets further confused as Iwaizumi’s face suddenly falls.

“You’re serious.” Iwaizumi’s voice sounds monotone but dark. For a moment Oikawa fears if he’s angry at him, but the way he then digs the heel of his palm into his brow bone suggests otherwise. He gives a small resigned ‘okay’, not sure if in agreement or just understanding, and leans back into the couch again to look up at the ceiling, face numb with shock.

Oikawa gets up from his awkward sideways position, legs still having been over the arm of the couch, sitting up properly but not knowing how to respond.

_Was there anything shocking in what I said?_

“What I mean,” Iwaizumi continues, voice soft and sounding sort of unsure, “is I should have told you much more often, that you can come to me with anything.” He looks over, biting into his lip with a lop-sided half-smile, “You’ve been sort of avoiding me and I didn’t want to push it, but I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do either, maybe I should have.”

Oikawa looks down at his hands, slightly clenching and unclenching them. “I’ve sort of been avoiding everyone. Sorry if that was cold of me.”

“It’s alright,” Iwaizumi hurries.

“I hope you know you can come to me with anything, too.”

Iwaizumi smiles in return, looking slightly less tense. After a moment, his head slumps to the side, though he jerks back up.

Oikawa places a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing. “Relax, you’ve had a super long day. I’ll watch the bread.”

Iwaizumi nods faintly, leaning his head back.

Oikawa gets up to go check on the dough, peeking under the towel, and it seems about double the size once again, just right for putting it in the oven. He sets it to 180 degrees and the timer to 40 minutes, heading back to the couch to see Iwaizumi slumped down onto his side, head tucked into his arms. Just as he sits down, Iwaizumi sighs heavily, burrowing further into his arms.

“You don’t want to sleep?”

Iwaizumi groans weakly, “I know I have to, I feel a little bit delirious already. I’m gonna get sick soon if I don’t.”

Oikawa hums sympathetically, settling his hand back on the other’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb on it in hopefully comforting circles. His finger halts on a spot on towards the back of his shoulder, tentatively feeling around through the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re quite tense here. You don’t have any muscle pain?” Oikawa reaches for the pillow on the other side of the couch, motioning for Iwaizumi to lift his head a bit.

“A little, yeah.” He sighs again, shifting his position slightly.

Oikawa settles his hand back on iwaizumi’s shoulder, moving around with gentle squeezes. “Tell me if anything hurts, okay?”

“Mhmm.”

Oikawa keeps gently massaging his shoulder, slowly moving up to the slope of his neck. When he reaches his hairline, Iwaizumi seems to relax a bit more, faintly turning his head to bare more of his neck. Oikawa massages up to his jawline and the back of his ear, then returning to the slope of his neck, Iwaizumi’s breathing gradually evening out.

Oikawa feels a complicated sense of guilt, touching Iwaizumi this intimately, but he knows what he feels right now is pure adoration and concern, void of any sexual undertone.

_I’m not thinking anything weird, this is to help him feel better._

And it seems to be working, as Iwaizumi seems to have fallen unconscious, breathing deeper and muscles lax. The perpetual frown in his brows seems to be reduced to mere remnants of it.

Oikawa stays sitting there, listening to the calming sound of Iwaizumi’s breathing while waiting for the bread to be ready. The smell has been leaking for a bit now, filling the room with a gently sweet atmosphere. He feels a pleasant sense of hunger in his stomach, one he hasn’t felt in a while now.

He briefly considers waking Iwaizumi once the milk bread is ready, but he doesn’t have the heart, so he carefully sits back down by his head to eat. The features so clearly run down with exhaustion make his chest hurt.

_If only I could help you somehow._

The milk bread tastes amazing, soft yet somehow not at all dry, falling apart perfectly. Oikawa is in silent bliss, his stomach very much approving.

He would have kept zoning out, but there’s a sudden sharp intake of breath beside him.

“Iwa-chan?” he asks quietly, putting his food down.

There is no response, but Iwaizumi’s breathing sounds ragged, and he reels forward holding his head in his hands. The pace quickly escalates, higher in pitch.

Oikawa tries to gather his attention with a hand on his nape. “Hajime, hey,” he says calmly, rubbing firm patterns into his skin, “Hey, it’s okay.” He places his other hand on Iwaizumi’s, trying to gently guide it away from its place in his hair. “It’s okay, you were dreaming. You’re okay.”

Iwaizumi’s breath hitches, followed by a broken whine, but he slowly lets his fingers be dislodged from his hair. His gaze is suddenly fixated on his palms, hands shaking, breathing shakier and shakier.

Oikawa wraps an arm around his shoulders, cupping his cheek with the other, leaning in close to his ear. “It’s okay, it was just a dream. It’s just you and me here.” He leans his head on the slope of Iwaizumi’s neck, softly nuzzling into it. “It’s okay, you’re okay. I’m right here, Hajime.”

Something seems to click, as Iwaizumi then grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls his up over his nose, holding it there, curling further into himself.

An ominous realization forms in Oikawa’s head that this is likely not the first or second time this has happened, as Iwaizumi has been consistently trying to resist sleep for a while now. He feels utterly helpless seeing his friend is such an uncharacteristically vulnerable state, trying to find the proper way to help but coming up empty, so he just keeps rubbing hopefully reassuring patterns onto Iwaizumi’s skin, feeling like the contact grounds himself more than the person it’s supposed to.

Iwaizumi gulps heavily, breathing slower but still kind of shallow. He raises his face slightly, “Can-, can I-,” he reaches out an arm for the brunette’s shirt, tentatively pulling it towards himself.

“Of course. Of course,” Oikawa sighs, letting himself be pulled into a proper embrace, winding both of his arms firmly around Iwaizumi’s shoulders.

Iwaizumi leans his weight heavily on the brunette, grabbing fistfuls of the back of his shirt, making him tilt back slightly. He turns his head to the side on Oikawa’s ribcage, closing his eyes and pressing his ear against the hoodie.

Oikawa settles a hand on Iwaizumi’s nape, the other slowly rubbing up and down his back, cheek pressed to his hair. They spend a while mostly breathing, Iwaizumi’s hands twitching every so often, Oikawa caressing him more firmly in return. Eventually, Iwaizumi slightly slides down the brunette’s chest.

“Sorry,” he sighs, leaning his temple against him, “I’m so tired.”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Oikawa reassures. “I’ll stay right here, if you want to try sleep again.”

Iwaizumi frowns in discomfort, bringing an arm to rub at his eye, still leaning on the brunette. He sighs again wearily, “Fuck.”

“Or do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly. As he sees Iwaizumi’s frown turn further sour, he quickly corrects himself, “Don’t have to, of course. Don’t think about it.”

Iwaizumi seems to contemplate it, leaning away from the brunette’s embrace and looking down at himself. “Sorry, I don’t want to burden you with this.” His eyes look dark and distant.

“Hey,” Oikawa’s voice is edged with sadness, “why’d you think something like that?” He brushes his knuckles along Iwaizumi’s bicep, “You’re not burdening me with anything. If there’s anything I can help with, anything at all, please tell me.”

Iwaizumi chews on his lip, taking a deep breath but shutting his mouth again.

“What is it?”

“You’re gonna think this is silly.”

“What? Why would I?” Oikawa looks genuinely confused, unable to imagine what Iwaizumi must be thinking of that he might make fun of in regular circumstances.

Iwaizumi calculatingly looks into the sincere chocolate-brown eyes, taking another deep breath. “Could I borrow your lap?” He looks away suddenly, “If-, if you don’t mind. Your presence somehow… calms me.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. Something in his chest stings. “You thought I would make fun of you for that.” He smiles thin-lipped, swallowing the sting, “It’s not silly at all. You know I cuddle Kou-chan semi-regularly.” He makes to lie down on the couch instead, holding his arms open, “Come here, this works much better.”

Iwaizumi leaves him hanging, making Oikawa wonder if maybe he was uncomfortable with the idea, but then he smiles slightly. “I didn’t want to sound mean, it’s just, we’ve never-,” he stammers for a bit, apparently at a loss for how to explain what he’s feeling. “How do I-, which way do I turn?”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow again. “Whichever way you want to?” _Why the question?_

Iwaizumi leans down on his elbows, looking over for a second, then deciding to turn his back to the brunette. He lowers himself down onto the brunette’s arm tentatively while leaving some distance between their bodies. As much as the small space on the couch allows.

_Oh._

The realization dawns on Oikawa, but he doesn’t voice it. “It’s fine to come closer,” he indicates with the arm half-hovering above Iwaizumi’s waist. As he feels Iwaizumi settle close along his body, he softly wraps the arm around his waist. “If anything feels uncomfortable, tell me.”

Iwaizumi hums back. “You too.”

Iwaizumi’s slightly rigid body starts to relax soon, either out of exhaustion or starting to get accustomed to this arrangement. Oikawa feels kind of bad taking this ‘first’ from him, though realizing that the thought is quite ridiculous. People don’t usually save spooning as a world-changing ‘first’.

Oikawa feels good about the closeness, but his mind ends up flitting through their areas of contact. His chest, his shoulder, his thighs, his arm on Iwaizumi’s waist, the neck over his bicep. He turns his head slightly so as not to breathe on Iwaizumi’s neck, adjusting his chest not to be so flush against his back, feeling his heart pick up in pace.

_Shh, self. This is to comfort Iwa-chan. Get your act together._

He still feels the shadow of a shiver crawl up his arm.

Iwaizumi turns a bit towards him, voice scratchier than usual. “Sorry, is your arm dying?”

“No-no, it’s alright,” he hurries, strengthening his hold on Iwaizumi. “I’ll tell you if it starts to.”

Iwaizumi hums, laying his head back down. They spend a while just breathing, Oikawa starting to wonder if Iwaizumi has already fallen asleep.

What he hears next, keeps tearing at Oikawa’s heart throughout the following night.

“I see people I love die. And I can’t save them.”

 

Saturday morning is lethargic for both of them. Oikawa wakes considerably earlier, not having slept much, though some of the fatigue eased by the warm body against his. He takes a deep breath, burrowing further into Iwaizumi’s neck, half-conflicted whether he should get up or not. That drive had started to dissipate, for his arm is still under Iwaizumi and remembering his tormented state from last night, and it would have dissipated completely, had he not noticed said arm having completely fallen asleep.

Oikawa tentatively tries moving his fingers, but then a surge of discomfort runs through his whole arm with violent pins and needles. He reaches his other arm over Iwaizumi, trying to move carefully.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck.”

Through some miracle, some pain, and a lot of shimmying later, Oikawa’s arm is free without rousing Iwaizumi. He sits up, feeling like for some reason he should not hold witness to Iwaizumi’s sleeping form. He carefully climbs over the mess of blanket and limbs, retreating to his room.

He considers going back to sleep, but knows he feels too restless. It’s not even worth trying. He grabs his phone from the bedside counter, finding it to be a literal 7am.

Should shower.

Should study for next week.

Should responsible adult.

He decides for a shower, that requiring the least mental effort. Slipping a finger into the hem of his underwear, he digs for the scar cream in the drawer. He feels over the rough patch of uneven skin, comparing it to how the surrounding skin feels. Wondering how peculiar it is that it feels as if he was touching his skin though fabric, he realizes he should put the cream on after he has showered. Duh.

Oikawa wonders if sitting down under the running water has become a habit for him. A ritual?

He was almost set on staying in his self-imposed exile inside his room, but there is a something tugging at him that makes him decide otherwise. He grabs his laptop bag and sets up station at the kitchen counter, eating yesterday’s milk bread and working on an assignment. He feels like making coffee but decides otherwise, afraid the noise might wake Iwaizumi.

It takes Iwaizumi almost until noon to even start approaching a more-or-less conscious state. Oikawa notices him burrowing his head further into his arms and opening his eyes but otherwise remaining unmoving. He gives the man a moment to get used to his surroundings, or possibly fall back into much needed sleep, but he’s taken aback by Iwaizumi suddenly pushing his head into the couch with a pained whine.

His fingers halt on the keyboard. He starts with a low voice, “Iwa-chan, you feeling okay?”

Iwaizumi turns towards the voice, gulping heavily. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Want me to get you some water?”

His voice grates through a hum, “It’s alright, I’ll get it.” He winces midway through pushing himself into a sitting position.

Oikawa wants to just tell him to lie back down and get the water himself, but feels as if Iwaizumi might read too deep into it. He doesn’t like to show weakness, as it is.

He eyes Iwaizumi drinking the water on faintly wavering feet while clearing his throat in between gulps. “Want to try the milk bread? It came out pretty good.” He thinks for a moment, “Or want to make some proper breakfast?”

“Mm, both,” he turns around, placing the cup on the counter, eyeing the brunette’s feet.

Oikawa looks down at them too. “Oh, it feels fine right now. I’ve been sitting still here for a while anyway.”

Iwaizumi hums in approval. “You should still do another cold compress today.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Iwaizumi decides to make them some porridge for breakfast, and they have the milk bread on the side. Oikawa moves to the couch with the ice pack while Iwaizumi goes out for a jog around the block.

 

“Hey,” Oikawa calls from the couch, looking over at Iwaizumi just pouring in their respective cups of coffee.

“Yeah?”

“Kou-chan’s inviting us out to the club tonight.” The something in his chest tugs a bit, but he doesn’t fully register what this is. “You want to go? You haven’t been able to join us in a while.”

“Sure,” he hums, gaze traveling to Oikawa with a playful glint in his eyes. “Shots first?”

Oikawa mirrors the grin, “Shots first.”

They settle for drinking the coffee in between shots to wash out the taste.

Iwaizumi gets the stuff needed while Oikawa clears his academic arsenal off the coffee table. They set up for their traditional drinking game for when it’s just the two of them.

Iwaizumi pours out their shots of gin, handing one to the brunette. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Oikawa can’t help but let his expression soften, feeling somehow nostalgic. He lifts his shot glass up to Iwaizumi’s lips.

Iwaizumi mimics the movement, carefully steadying the shot glass by the brunette’s mouth.

Oikawa tries not to let his fingers waver the moment the glass touches his bottom lip, mirroring the tilting movement in time with Iwaizumi’s, leaning forward slightly to better catch the burning liquid.

“Uegh-,” he reaches for his glass of coffee, the first shot always the nastiest in taste.

Iwaizumi laughs at him softly, following suit, his nose slightly scrunched up as well.

They take their pace slow, it still being relatively early on in the evening, playing music in the background.

By their third shots, Oikawa is preemptively hovering his hand under Iwaizumi’s chin.

Iwaizumi snorts lightly at the brunette’s concentrated expression. “Scared you’ll spill it already?”

“I’m being thoughtful here, you ass,” Oikawa laughs back, the comment void of any ill element.

“I’m sure my clothes are thankful for your _thoughtfulness_.”

Oikawa fake-pouts at him, gesturing at him with the glass. “Lessee what you got then, tough guy.”

Neither of them spill yet, though despite his earlier mirth, Iwaizumi settles his free hand on Oikawa’s shoulder for the next round.

The corners of Oikawa’s lips turn up in mischief. “And what have we here, Mister I’m Confident I Won’t Spill My Drink.”

“Hey, that facial expression pisses me off, so stop.”

“Pft! So rude!” he laughs out loud, lowering his shot glass. “Think of a better comeback, Iwa-chan, we’re no longer in high school!”

“Shut it, Shittykawa!” he laughs back, grin wide, hand still on Oikawa’s shoulder. “Ready your drink.”

“ _Yours_ , you mean.”

“Yes-yes.”

They raise their shot glasses back up to each other’s lips, just about to tilt them when Iwaizumi slips out his tongue against Oikawa’s fingers, giving them a firm swipe.

Oikawa, mouth agape, admittedly spills this time.

Iwaizumi breaks out laughing, wiping down his chin with the back of his hand.

“Hey-,” Oikawa starts, but gets interrupted by another loud burst of high-pitched laughs. “Hey, that’s-, that’s cheating.”

Iwaizumi wheezes, “Yes-yes, I know-,” he doubles over, holding onto his stomach. “But-, but your face!”

Oikawa genuinely pouts this time, feeling hot in the face.

Iwaizumi tries to tone down his laughing, not really succeeding all that well. He wheezes out “Priceless.”

Eventually Iwaizumi’s breathing mostly settles down, and he silently reaches for the unfinished shot glass and downs it. “That was indeed unfair. But this is a small price to pay,” he sticks out his tongue.

“And now you stole my trademark grin,” he fakes exasperation.

“Sorry-sorry.”

Iwaizumi’s smile is uncharacteristically genuine, even for him, making Oikawa feel something bittersweet.

 

They reach Silver Feather soon enough, having changed clothes but foregone the usual last before-out-the-door shot. It’s snowing outside, making their breaths puff out like thick smoke.

They reach the couched corner by the bar, greeted by the loud, presumably already quite drunk cat-owl combo. Apparently neither of them is working tonight.

“Eyy bros,” Bokuto chimes in, turning to Iwaizumi, “haven’t seen ya in a while now, how’s going?”

Iwaizumi simply turns to slide off his jacket, silently raising his arm and flexing his bicep for him.

“Oh my shit,” the owl's eyes turn impossibly round, “you’ve multiplied. It’s totally visible.” He rolls up his own sleeve, flexing his own bicep in comparison. “So been busy working?”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi gives a small slightly-tired smile.

Oikawa decides to leave the muscle idiots to commune on their own for the moment, sitting down opposite Kuroo.

“How’ve you been?” he asks the impressive bed-head, leaning on the table on his forearms.

“Quite alright, actually,” the cat smiles back, sighing. Something indicates like that’s not the whole truth, but Oikawa doesn’t know if he should press it. “I’ve had some time to relax these past days. How about you?”

“I’m fine,” Oikawa answers automatically, wondering if the answer seemed too rushed to sound credible. Luckily Kuroo doesn’t press it either.

Kuroo continues in a lower tone, “You haven’t stayed over as much lately but, you know you’re always welcome to right? If you want.”

“Yeah,” Oikawa replies with a genuine smile, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Suddenly Bokuto and Iwaizumi appear, the owl looking ominously excited about something. “Truth or false,” he declares, sitting down by Kuroo.

Iwaizumi settles down next to the brunette, and they begin a game of truth or false. Everyone takes turns making two statements about themselves, one of which has to be true, one false. Everyone who guesses wrong has to drink.

It begins with mostly stories about the past, with odd details switched up, until it’s Oikawa’s turn once again. He hesitates on what to say.

Bokuto leans in closer over the table, “C’mon, c’mon, give us some details. Anything goes.”

Oikawa hums in thought, trying to gulp discreetly. “Alright, here.” He tries to keep his face neutral so as not to give away any clues, raising his index finger. “Number one: Iwa-chan once headbutted me so hard he made my nose bleed.” He follows closely with the next one. “Number two: that girlfriend I had in high school, you guys remember, broke up with me because I was too invested in volleyball.”

The group goes silent for a moment. Bokuto starts with what everyone is thinking, “Dude, you’re tricking us, one of those has to be false.”

“One of them is.”

“Oh.”

Iwaizumi’s brows furrow in thought. “You guys guess first.”

“Alright, uuh, number two is false?” the owl goes.

“Number two is false,” the cat follows suit.

Iwaizumi adds with a smaller voice, nodding lightly, “Number two is false.”

“Yep, you’re all correct,” the brunette pokes out his tongue in an out-of-place playful smile.

Bokuto starts, “But, then, why’s that what she told everyone?”

Iwaizumi turns to the owl with a half-glare.

“That’s not the game, Kou-chan,” Oikawa grins, “if you want that kind of info we’re gonna have to play truth or dare some other time.”

“Aight, aight,” Bokuto sighs, not giving way to his curiosity.

Oikawa tunes himself out of the following questions, however, guessing half-heartedly and making up random questions. At one point, he feels something prickling at his eyes, not tears but some other kind of discomfort. He makes to lie down with his head on Iwaizumi’s lap, making questioning eye contact before actually touching him. He hopes Iwaizumi’s small smile means approval, not seeing the other two’s expressions as he’s shielded by the table.

The game dies out, so they just continue talking, Oikawa’s mind ebbing in and out of focus, faintly grounded by the physical contact. Iwaizumi’s fingers subtly brush through his hair for a moment, making his muscles relax slightly through the intoxicated haze.

“Hey, Bokuto,“ he hears Kuroo wheezing, “stop, you know I’m ticklish.”

Bokuto whines, apparently not stopping what he’s doing, “ _You’re_ the one who’s here,” he drawls, “looking so damn tickleable.”

Oikawa suddenly feels like he wants to stab himself in the stomach.

Heartbeat in his throat, he sits up suddenly, not seeing any of their expressions. He calmly stands up, grabbing his jacket and walking away from them. He hears someone calling his name but doesn’t turn to look.

He walks out the front, still holding his jacket in his fist, making his way down the road until he’s stopped by a hand grabbing his wrist.

“Oikawa? What’s wrong?” the voice sounds all too worried. “Did you want to go home?”

He whispers, keeping his voice as leveled as he can, “Don’t stop me.”

He hears Iwaizumi make a questioning sound, but the hand still lets go of him.

Trailing down the street towards the usually-empty parking lot, he hears Iwaizumi following him but can’t bring himself to look, nor to tell him to go away.

Once there, he turns toward him with his head down, pushing his jacket at Iwaizumi. He takes his hoodie off as well, trusting the dark not to show anything he doesn’t want seen of his arms, sits down in the snow, and lies back. He closes his eyes, grabbing fistfuls of the snow, flexing his arms against the sharp burning sensation on his bare skin.

He tries to tune out the sound of his name, his arms gradually feeling hot instead of cold due to numbness.

“Tooru,” he hears again. “Tooru, please.”

Oikawa yields once he registers the desperation in Iwaizumi’s voice, feeling sorry for scaring him, and blindly reaches out his arm.

Iwaizumi pulls him up virtually effortlessly, quickly wrapping the jacket around him in the fluid motion of a hug, rubbing his hands up and down his back through the fabric.

Oikawa doesn’t quite know what it is he’s feeling, just listlessly staying still in the embrace.

Iwaizumi sighs shakily, leaning his chin on the brunette’s shoulder, “Feeling any better?”

Oikawa’s breath catches, something twisting painfully in his chest. He hesitantly winds his own arms around Iwaizumi’s waist. He breathes out a barely audible “I am now.”

He feels the slight twitch in Iwaizumi’s form, but doesn’t fully know how to interpret it, just staying still and focusing on his breathing for the moment.

He doesn’t want to break the contact, but feels guilty for taking advantage of Iwaizumi’s kindness, so he blurts out, “Should go. It’s cold.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” Iwaizumi leans back, squeezing the brunette’s shoulders firmly, handing him the hoodie and holding the jacket while he puts it on.

They reach home in hurried steps, Oikawa changing out of the wet shirt, and settle down on the couch for a movie per Iwaizumi’s request, though both of them have trouble keeping their eyes open at this point.

“You choose. I’m always making you watch The X-Files, it’s your turn,” Oikawa insists.

“Hmm… well, in that case,” Iwaizumi pretends to mull over it, tapping his index finger on his lower lip with an innocent face, “I choose The X-Files.”

Oikawa dozes feeling oddly weightless.

 

Monday morning, Oikawa wakes to a very unwanted message.

       _Hey, you left your belt here the other day, […]_

His initial reaction is to glance away and not even finish reading it. He takes a moment to breathe and look into the distance, half-hoping once he looks back it will have ceased to exist.

It did not.

If Makki sees it, or Mattsun…

_It’s just a belt, it could be anyone’s._

But it’s the one he has had since high school, the main one he always wears everywhere.

_This could cause a misunderstanding._

_I’ll just go._

_I’ll just go get it and get back._


	4. Deadened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Oikawa listens to on his mp3 player is The Outside Agency - The Wandering Mind:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJFedQZ3P20
> 
> Also I'm really happy about all the comments, I got so much positive energy from them so thank you guys! All questions/comments welcome, or if you just want somebody to talk to.  
> You can also reach me on tumblr at beneaththeskin.tumblr.com

_Deaden [v. (used with object)]_

_1\. to make less sensitive, active, energetic, or forcible; weaken._

 

Oikawa’s body is heavier than he recalls it ever being. He feels a faint sickness in his stomach. A slight pinching feeling between his thumb and index finger alerts him of the placement of his limbs, but he doesn’t have any strength to move. Someone’s holding his hand, or just touching it, he isn’t sure.

As he’s adjusting to his physical state, he tries to blink his eyes open but doesn’t quite succeed. Through moderately blurred vision he sees his hands in front of himself. There’s nobody touching them anymore. He seems to be lying on his side. He notices his hand is attached to what looks to be an IV drip, and just in case, he clenches and releases his fingers a couple of times. They’re so heavy they don’t feel like they are even connected to the rest of his body.

There’s someone speaking in what he figures to be Spanish, but he doesn’t even bother trying to raise his head. He doubts they’re talking to him anyway. He isn’t sure if he’s tired or sleepy, but it doesn’t take long until he’s passed out for a while again.

He hears muffled sounds and voices as he drifts in and out of sleep, but he isn’t really able to quite register them.

 

This time it’s a bit easier for Oikawa to open his eyes. For now he just lies still and tries to ignore the headache. His body is still really heavy and he doesn’t really bother moving. As he’s taking in his surroundings, he notices there’s nobody there. He’s on what looks to be a hospital bed, and the whole room looks like some sort of institution, but he doesn’t think it’s actually a hospital. There’s faint light and a counter-like place across the room, and he has an image of someone having been there in his head, but that may just have been his imagination.

Oikawa’s mind in general is blank though. As far as he’s concerned, he needs to use the bathroom. Although he isn’t too excited about shifting to a vertical position, and for a very good reason. As soon as he starts to push himself up with both hands, his head starts fighting back vehemently, throbbing with pain. He winces and stays still for a long moment, sitting on the edge of the bed – or more like the sheeted surface. He notices he’s no longer wired but both of his hands are patched up with large hospital-grade adhesive bandages. His spotty forearm is untouched.

Looking around the room, he sees there really is nobody there, just empty beds. The door to the hallway is open though, and he wearily drags himself towards it to look for somebody. At first sight the hallway is devoid of any kind of life signs, but as he wanders a bit further, a nurse-like woman gets up from her chair and walks up to him.

“Um, excuse me, is there a bathroom somewhere around here?” Oikawa inquires politely.

“This way,” she guides him to a room full of medical equipment, with a toilet in the back only blocked by a set of drapes in front of it. The door to the hallway is left open too, and she’s wandering around here somewhere. Normally, this would be quite an embarrassing situation, but right now the brunette doesn’t even care.

When he’s done washing his hands, he’s met by a large man in a police uniform, standing by the door. He tells the brunette to follow him and guides him to a little room that looks like a cell, and tells him to go back to sleep until he’s more or less in an okay condition. As he’s still really beat, he falls asleep right away, on a mattress on the floor this time.

 

Oikawa feels like he probably slept for quite a while, ‘cause once he wakes up again, the room is a lot lighter than it was before. He notices it actually has a little window. This time around he’s in much better condition, though feeling cold. Snuggling in on himself a bit for warmth, he figures they’ve taken his stuff, since he doesn’t have his hoodie or belt, nor any of his cards.

 _Oh fucking shit you’ve got to be kidding me_.

He finally registers the vomit lining the side of his jeans. He’s unlucky they’re black. _Oh well. That’s what you get for getting blasted, stupid Oikawa._

_Oh. That’s right._

They were drinking at Bokuto and Kuroo’s apartment last night… then… there was some talk of hitting the bars in the city center for a change of pace, as he recalls. They’re almost too used to Silver Feather by now, and neither Tsukki nor Bokuto were playing a set that night. He feels like there were more people at first, but he just remembers staggering through the streets with Bokuto, drinking something… and talking about something, but he can’t for the life of him remember what that something was. From around when they were nearing the city center, complete blackout. He doesn’t think he took his phone with him either. Smart. Very smart.

Not quite sure how he got here, he figures the only logical place for it to be would be the what’s-it-called, sobering-up facility? As far as he knows, they’re supposed to have a medical unit.

No longer sleepy, he sits up. Just a moment later the man from before peeks through the door and asks if he feels okay enough to be able to get home, to which the brunette replies with as confident of a ‘yes’ as he can muster, not really feeling like staying there much longer.

After that, he’s guided through the building to a room with a number of lockers and another man sitting behind a table pointing to a sheet of paper on it for him to sign. He doesn’t really bother looking through it – though being a law student, he probably should – and just signs it. Next, he’s handed a box filled with a black plastic bag and what seem to be his belongings. Putting on the hoodie and belt and recovering his cards, he almost forgets he’s also supposed to put on his shoes. And yeah, no phone, or for the matter of fact, keys. As he feels the pockets of his hoodie, he finds the little pack of razors, which he instantly identifies as his, still there, untouched.

_Wow._

No questions as to why he’s there all fucked up or what he might’ve been taking, no one-way ticket to the psych ward, nothing. So far there have been no questions except if he’s feeling okay.

_Guess they’re used to this._

The journey home is a mess. As he’s accompanied by a “was he really wearing only that?” by some guard, he notices it must have started snowing again sometime last night.

_Great. I don’t even know where exactly I am, I’m cold and I have no phone._

And his body doesn’t seem too happy about walking either.

As he gets to the nearest bus stop, looking at the map he figures it’s about an hour walk back to the apartment building from this place. It’s quite a stranded part of the city, what with luck having decided to abandon him for the time being, so no buses are likely to stop by anytime soon. As much as he’d like to just take a taxi, he has no phone.

As Oikawa walks through the streets and sees occasional reflections of himself, he figures no taxi would take him on anyway. What with him looking zombie-ish, stained with vomit. Hair a mess. Hands bandaged. He feels like he straight up looks like a junkie, though guessing he’s not that far off. He gets the occasional stare on the street as well, no wonder.

Making it back to their building, legs half-dead, he wonders what he should do first. He doesn’t have his key, so he can’t go home. And he doesn’t have his phone to call anyone. And he doesn’t know if Iwaizumi was supposed to be at work. Or if it’s noon already, for that matter.

He ends up knocking on Bokuto and Kuroo’s door, though not even knowing if either of them is there.

A very tousled-looking owl happens to stare back at him in disbelief.

“Heheh,” Oikawa waves with a sheepish smile.

“Man, dude,” the stuttering mess stares at the brunette, “where did you go? I’ve been calling you like all night.”

“No phone.”

Bokuto just keeps staring.

“Also no keys.”

Bokuto’s eyes travel down to the brunette’s hands, widening further. “What happened?”

“Honestly,” Oikawa breathes, “I have zero recollection of last night. I have no idea. Woke up attached to an IV.”

The owl’s brain seems to have completely ceased function.

“Do you know if I maybe left my stuff here?” Oikawa almost feels like waving a hand in front of Bokuto’s face. “Also I’m literally dying of thirst so do you mind if I get myself a glass of water?”

He receives a questioning sound in return. “Sure, of course. Help yourself.”

Feeling Bokuto trail after him to the kitchen corner, Oikawa grabs a glass off the counter and fills it with water, trying not to half-inhale the whole thing. He feels like his head is clearer than it should be, considering.

“I think these are your keys, right…?” Bokuto holds out the small collection of metal to the brunette, face showing signs of his mind trying to catch up, eyebrows scrunched together. “But I don’t think I’ve seen your phone…”

“Thanks,” Oikawa accepts the keys. “Bummer. Should call my mother. It’s her birthday today.”

Bokuto looks like he can literally no longer tell whether the brunette is speaking an actual language or not.

“Aight, I’ll see if maybe Iwa-chan knows where my phone is, was he supposed to go into work today? Also what time is it? I’ve no idea what time it is.”

“Hey,” the owl stops his mouth from running off for the moment with a hand on the brunette’s shoulder, “you’re okay though?” His eyes toggle between chocolate brown, studying them intently, despite his own gold being greatly dimmed. “You’re not hurt? Nothing bad happened?”

Oikawa sighs with a half-compassionate smile. “I don’t remember. But I don’t think so. I think I feel better than you do, though, you look miserable.”

Bokuto snorts, “’course I look miserable. I go to order us a drink and I come back and you’re not there, and you don’t pick up your phone at all, and I don’t know where you are, and then you just show up here lookin’ all dandy and-… just-”

“I’m sorry,” Oikawa’s face drops a level. “Didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“I know,” Bokuto sighs heavily. “Okay. Go find your phone and call your mom, don’t make her sad.”

“Yeah,” he laughs slightly. “And you look like you need more sleep.”

“Indeed I do,” the owl musses up his hair further, eyes looking heavy. He looks like he’s mulling something over, slightly chewing on his bottom lip. “Can you come back here, later? To talk for a bit?”

Oikawa gives the owl the most genuine smile he can conjure up. “Sure, yeah.”

 

He didn’t.

 

He finds a note at their coffee table:

 

_hey Dummykawa, you left your phone. I thought you’d be back home later so I took it with me but, if that was trouble then sry. Bokuto called me in the dead of the night tho, did he lose sight of u at some point?_

_anyway, I didn’t catch you and I have to head to work now so I’ll leave it here – >_

_(take better care of ur stuff)_

_PS: I left some food in the fridge so feel free to eat it_

           – _Iwa_

 

Oikawa shuts down. If you asked him how he was doing, he would probably honestly say ‘fine’. But a fundamental something, cracked. Why at this particular point in time, he wouldn’t know.

He doesn’t get back to Bokuto that night, and he doesn’t open the two text messages he gets from him, and he hides in his room, even though Iwaizumi won’t be back until tomorrow’s midday.

Then later he goes to classes, makes small talk, smiles politely. Sheepishly apologizes to Makki later in the week, saying he has a headache and doesn’t really feel like hanging out.

A something makes him back out of any opportunity for social interaction.

Until he no longer has a choice.

He dials the number, virtually forcing himself to press the call button before he has a chance to change his mind.

“Yes?”

The voice sounds soft, angelic almost.

“Hey, Suga-chan, really sorry to bother you, especially on a Friday, umm…,” he ends up trailing off into nervous laughter, “I was just wondering if, uh-”

_Very eloquent. Way to go, captain._

“Is everything alright?” There are sounds bustling in the background, until the clack of a door can be heard through the line.

“Yeah-yeah, just, I was sort of-,” he cuts off again, fully knowing that this bullshitting isn’t helping the situation in the least. He sighs shakily, “No.”

There is silence for a moment, Oikawa not knowing how to interpret it. Sugawara’s voice is serious but calm. “I’ve got about four hours of my shift left. Are you okay with dropping by the hospital?”

“Uh, yeah. If it’s not too much of a bother.” Oikawa laughs shakily again, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sugawara’s genuine-sounding voice almost coaxes the brunette into really not worrying about it much. Almost. “Call me again when you get here and I’ll meet you by the entrance, okay?”

“Okay,” Oikawa chews on his bottom lip, hastily adding, “Thank you, Suga.”

“Of course.”

 

Oikawa paces his room, considers taking a shot of gin, considers just not going. Looking down at the sleeve of his hoodie, he knows he can’t. He has to.

He’s scared to check what it looks like.

_Hah, since when am I so faint-hearted? Can do it but can’t look at it?_

_Pathetic._

His laugh turns hollow halfway through.

Grabbing his jacket and carefully sliding the sleeve past his arm, he grabs his phone and keys, listlessly heading down the hall, mind blank. He eyes his shoes like they’re the most interesting things he’s seen as of late, stepping down the stairs, taking deep breaths through his mouth.

He almost doesn’t know how he got from the apartment building to the bus, from the bus to in front of the hospital. He dials Sugawara’s number, half-hoping he won’t pick up.

Of course he does.

“Yes? You’re here?” The gentleness of the voice makes Oikawa feel bad for using him for help.

“Yeah, um, do I stay at the main entrance, or?”

“Yes, that’s fine, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Oikawa takes a deep breath, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, trying not to look too out of place, though he doesn’t have to wait long.

Sugawara appears in the entranceway, smiling warmly, waving Oikawa in.

They walk past some people and a set of automatic doors, to a more secluded hallway, making a turn until they reach what looks like a general examination room. Sugawara gestures for the brunette to sit down on the chair by the table, sitting himself down beside him.

Sugawara’s eyes seem to study him for a moment. “How can I help?”

The corner of Oikawa’s lip contorts upward into a pained grin, the unsettling laugh stopping in his throat. “Sorry,” he breathes out sharply, “I really didn’t mean to bother you at work-”

Sugawara raises a questioning eyebrow, the sincere gaze partially throwing Oikawa further off balance, partially ground him at the same time.

He takes a deep breath, reaching to take off his jacket, following with his hoodie, slightly halting before sliding it off his arms.

Sugawara doesn’t bat an eye, though his gaze immediately catches the brunette’s left forearm, and the bandage wrapped around it. He hovers under his wrist, eyes glancing at Oikawa before carefully settling the arm on the table. “I’m taking this off now, okay?” he gestures to the bandage, reaching for a pair of scissors in the drawer.

Oikawa nods, trying to gulp discreetly, almost praying he won’t be pestered for an explanation. He looks away from his arm as Sugawara cuts through the knot of the bandage, studying the way his scrubs fall on his lithe frame instead as a distraction. As the bandage is nearly unwrapped, it appears to be stuck to the skin beneath it.

Sugawara reaches for an antiseptic, generously spraying it on the bandage where it’s stuck. He then cuts the remaining bandage in parallel, carefully trying for if it’s letting up. The edge is now gradually peeling off, though making Oikawa jolt slightly. Sugawara lays the bandage aside, holding onto his wrist to turn his arm slightly from side to side, examining the extent of the damage. “Can you tell me where you got this?”

Oikawa gulps again, feeling like the motion doesn’t go very smoothly, words way too breathy for his liking. “Do I have to?” He knows the spots littering the rest of his forearm leave very little room to misread this, though.

“No,” Sugawara replies with a compassionate smile, grabbing a device from the drawer and holding it to the brunette’s temple. “No fever,” he says as a side note, reaching behind himself and reemerging with a white container of something, then grabbing a wad of gauze. He sprays the gauze with antiseptic, then sprays the wound with it too, softly patting it, then rubbing around the edges, cleaning it of any loose tissue. “Does that hurt at all?”

Oikawa hums, thinking. “Doesn’t feel like anything in particular.” He feels the coldness of the spray and the touch around the wound, but nothing directly on it.

Sugawara opens the container and takes some brown-ish paste from it with a spoon-looking wooden thing, generously spreading it on a fresh wad of gauze. “This looks like deep partial-thickness.” He carefully lays the gauze on the wound, grabbing a new roll of bandage, starting to wrap it around the brunette’s arm to secure it. He spends a moment studying Oikawa’s face. “That’s a second degree burn.” He finishes wrapping the bandage, vertically cutting the end of it to tie it in a knot. “You should change the dressing in about every three days. It’s better not to agitate it in between the changing.”

“Okay.” Oikawa feels a sense of shame for bothering this gentle angel with his stupid shit. He pulls his hoodie back on over his head, to get the obvious _problem_ out of sight.

“Here, you can have this,” Sugawara caps the container and holds it out to the brunette. “They don’t have it in the pharmacy, but it’s the best one for burns that I know of.”

“Thank you, really,” Oikawa looks down, trying not to chew on his lip so openly.

“Of course,” he smiles warmly. “You should also take either paracetamol or ibuprofen to prevent infection. If they’re the generic 400mg ones then two at a time, up to eight a day, total.” He jots the instructions down on a piece of paper for him as well.

“Okay,” Oikawa tries not to squeeze the container and note in his hand.

“And if you do get a fever, or your hand swells considerably, call me or come straight to the ER, they’ll know what to do.”

“Got it,” Oikawa tries for a smile, hoping it doesn’t look too creepy. “Thank you,” he makes to stand up and start to get going so as not to take up too much of his friend’s time, but is stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“If there’s anything I can help with, anything at all, I’m always available.”

Oikawa breathes in sharply but closes his mouth again, looking down at the jacket and container in his hands. He feels light-headed, trying not to waver on his feet.

“That’s what I’m here for, so it’s no trouble at all.” He gives the brunette’s shoulder a soft squeeze before releasing it.

Oikawa smiles tight-lipped, really wanting to believe it. “Thank you.”

 

On his way home, Oikawa feels a strange tightness in his throat, instinctively wanting to curl into himself but holding back. It would be kind of awkward, being on public transport and all.

He puts the container and note on his bed, sitting down heavily with his head between his knees, suddenly feeling bad for having ignored his friends lately.

_I’m supposed to be here for them._

Opening his phone, he checks the messages Bokuto had left him a while ago.

>>From Kou-chan: hey we’re just starting to make dinner if u wanna join us

>>From Kou-chan: or at any point later, feel free to drop by

Something further twists in Oikawa’s chest, making his heart beat uncomfortably against his ribcage. He grabs his mp3 player and headphones, turning the sound up to near-deafening. He grabs the pack of cigarettes and lighter out of his jacket pocket, goes to open the window and lies down on the floor in front of it.

He grabs a cigarette and lights it, breathing in a large lungful of smoke, letting it freely flow out of his mouth. Then he just lies there, staring at the burning ember, eyes swimming in and out of focus. He twirls the cigarette in his hand, after a while breathing it in again, gaze on the ember burning brighter in time with his breath, right under his eyes. The fire eats away at its surrounding material, corroding its core.

He wants it to corrode his own core.

He knows it doesn’t work.

He grinds out the cigarette on the small plate on the windowsill, and squeezes his arm through the hoodie, the surrounding skin pulling tight painfully. Taking a deep breath, he digs his nails into his palms for a long moment and stands up. He observes the small moon-shaped marks on his skin, knowing they’ll disappear in no time.

Heading to the kitchen corner as his stomach has been twisting painfully in hunger the latter half of the day, he finds a new note on the counter:

 

_milk bread here – >_

_more food in fridge_

_hope u feel better soon_

           – _Iwa_

 

Oikawa laughs loudly, the sound high-pitched and hollow, discarding his headphones and rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

_Why the fuck do you even-_

_Why the fuck would you even care about someone like me._

_I’m a super shit friend._

He keeps looking at the note, feeling sorry for the food and Iwaizumi’s kindness, deciding to eat it after all.

He decides to leave a note of his own in return, doodling an emoji on it for emphasis:

 

 _super delish!!_ _✿✿_

 _thx_ (◠ヮ◕) ✌

 

That it is indeed delicious, he shall find out after he actually tastes it. The vegetable curry goes really well with the milk bread, and is the healthiest and the most proper meal Oikawa has had all week.

He feels like he should apologize to Bokuto.

>>To Kou-chan: hey, um, super sry i havn’t replied. sry sry.

He gets a reply no more than a minute later, feeling super guilty for taking all that time himself.

>>From Kou-chan: no probs man everythin alrite?

Oikawa feels like laughing self-deprecatingly, but the sound doesn’t quite come out.

>>To Kou-chan: yea i’m fine. just been off-radar sry

>>From Kou-chan: no worries. wanna come over?

He hesitates for a moment, but feels a strange sense of vulnerability being seen right now.

>>To Kou-chan: sry. not today.

>>From Kou-chan: aight bro but offer still stands for whenever

Oikawa ends up falling asleep soon after, more peacefully than he has in a while, though still waking up at points in the night, head feeling fuzzy.

 

Oikawa eventually yields, and they agree on a sleepover at Bokuto and Kuroo’s the next day, Iwaizumi able to join them this time. Bokuto apparently talked to them both separately as there’s a soft set of knocks on his door.

“Yeah?”

Iwaizumi peeks through the doorway, impressive bags under his eyes. “Hey, mornin’,” he starts, holding onto the doorframe, “Bokuto just announced that we’re all havin’ a sleepover tonight?”

Oikawa sits up a bit, not having been sleeping but still tangled in the blanket. “Yeah, I guess that’s the plan.”

“Okay,” he yawns, hiding it behind the back of his hand. “Wanna have breakfast and then shop for some snacks and stuff?”

“Sure, sounds great,” Oikawa starts to get up, but realizes he only put a shirt on for sleeping, and the hand currently under his pillow is one he can’t just wave around. He halts and fakes exhaustion, dropping back on the pillow. “Nngh, I’ll be up in a sec. And I think I’ll have a shower first.”

“Sure,” Iwaizumi’s dragging steps can be heard going towards the living room.

The shower goes awkwardly for Oikawa, not being able to use one hand. He has it wrapped in a plastic bag and secured with a hairband, holding it up above his head the whole time. He has to open the shampoo bottle while holding it between his elbow and his side, feeling lucky it’s actually staying there due to some miracle. The dressing feels slightly damp, making it gross and itchy, but he remembers he’s not supposed to change it until Monday.

Emerging in sweats and a black hoodie with an alien face on it, he wanders towards the living room slash kitchen to find Iwaizumi face-first on the kitchen counter, jerking his head back up once he hears footsteps.

“You sure you don’t want to go sleep for now?” Oikawa asks with a compassionate smile. He sure as hell looks like he needs it.

“No,” Iwaizumi hurries, sitting up properly on the chair he seems to have brought from his room. “No, it’s perfect if I stretch it out ‘til tonight, then I’ll be out like a light there.” He seems to have been in the middle of making sandwiches.

“I’ll take over, you go lay back on the couch or something,” the brunette waves in his direction, trying to shoo him away.

“Nah I got this,” Iwaizumi looks determined, grabbing ahold of the knife to cut the tomato into slices on the cutting board.

Oikawa settles for just helping him then, getting another knife to slice the cucumber.

They eat breakfast in a soft sort of silence, Iwaizumi half looking like he’s going to just doze off mid-bite, but the coffee seems to gradually be kicking in, making his eyes a little bit more lucid. They drop by the grocery store closest to their building, getting some healthier snacks courtesy of Iwaizumi – oranges and apples and such – and get some flavored nuts, tortilla chips, pizza and something to mix gin with.

When they arrive at Bokuto and Kuroo’s a bit later on in the evening, they discover a whole load of all sorts of unhealthy snacks the two apparently had prepared. Oikawa finds himself surprisingly thankful for the oranges and apples.

They begin the evening just eating and chatting away, even Oikawa sort of getting swept by the flow, feeling more normal than he has been the whole week. Kuroo then offers to settle in their bedroom, and they pull their beds together, settling in a mess of blankets and pillows, Bokuto playing music in the background.

Oikawa was innocently eating chips and talking to Iwaizumi, when Bokuto suddenly drapes himself over his back, crossing his arms on the brunette’s shoulders, who squeaks loudly.

“I wanna driiink,” the owl whines.

“Then drink,” Oikawa laughs back. “You big baby.”

“I’m a perfectly moderately-sized baby, thanks very much.”

“Pffft!” Oikawa snorts, suddenly feeling almost exhilarated, though face starting to drop soon again. He tries to hide it, but catches Iwaizumi looking at him weird for a moment, and waves him off.

“Let’s all get shots then!” Oikawa tries being proactive, though indeed feeling like he could use a shot himself.

They settle in a circle on the bed, Oikawa hugging a pillow to his chest, Iwaizumi leant against the wall next to him, Kuroo almost leaning into Bokuto’s side. For some reason, Oikawa is reminded of the last time they had shots together, with the two of them, feeling his stomach twist weirdly.

“Last one to finish this shot has to take a double!” Oikawa shouts suddenly, downing his in one go and watching the mighty sputtering around him.

Kuroo ends up being last, mind not having caught up fast enough, and Bokuto pours a second shot for him that he downs quite noncommittally.

Oikawa starts feeling the alcohol surprisingly soon, glad that the conversation seems to flow quite effortlessly. They warm up some pizza and get more drinks, the brunette eventually lying down by Iwaizumi’s feet, looking up at the ceiling, the world turning slightly. He turns his head back, getting an upside-down view of Iwaizumi, who seems to be virtually tuned out, eyes open but blank.

Oikawa pushes himself up on an elbow. “Hey, maybe we should be getting to sleep soon,” he says to the crazy two who seem to be in the middle of some joke, gesturing towards Iwaizumi, who doesn’t even notice the talk being about him.

“Oh,” Bokuto’s mouth falls open in realization, “wait, he hasn’t slept at all since getting off work, or something?”

“Yeah, he didn’t want to,” Oikawa shrugs. “Though he could definitely use it.”

“Yea obviously,” Kuroo dips in from the side, slightly tripping over his own hand, trying to get off the bed to go to the bathroom.

Oikawa coaxes Iwaizumi into going to the bathroom as well, so the rest of them could get the bed ready and clear of food and other utensils. Iwaizumi literally sinks face-first into the fabric when he gets back, unmoving and virtually unresponsive.

Oikawa softly pokes at his shoulder, trying to get his attention. “You feeling alright?” he whispers. “Don’t feel sick or anything?”

“Nope. Just dead tired.”

“Okay.”

They settle into bed, Oikawa on one edge next to Iwaizumi, then Bokuto, and Kuroo on the other edge. Iwaizumi gets one large blanket while Bokuto and Kuroo agree to share the other. Oikawa insisted on just getting the two fleece blankets as he’s got his hoodie anyway.

Oikawa starts slipping into unconsciousness hearing the two whispering between each other, feeling content yet somehow prickly behind his eyes.

 

Oikawa is woken by a very disgruntled-sounding Bokuto, who apparently hadn’t slept very well.

“What do you want, Kou-chan, it’s like fuck-AM,” he whines without even attempting to raise his head.

“Youu-,” the owl starts, “you’re obviously very happy there, with your _true friend_ there who got yo back.”

Oikawa doesn’t understand a word the owl is muttering.

“Kuro, here, Kurooo,” he tries especially loudly, hovering over the cat’s head, “completely hogged our blanket and I had to sleep out cold. Got a death grip on it and all.”

Oikawa attempts to just tune him out, feeling Iwaizumi rousing behind him as well already.

A ‘s’wwy bro’ can be heard, muffled somewhere.

“And, and then when I turn and say,” he emphasizes, “ _Iwaizumi I’m cold_ , to maybe you know, get a piece of the other blanket cause it’s obviously large enough for two people, he-,” he sighs scandalously. “You know what he does?”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow, eyes still closed.

“He goes and drapes some of the blanket over _you_ instead,” he emphasizes again, “all cuddling into Oikawa-san over there who obviously didn’t need a _third_ _extra blanket_.”

Now Oikawa is wide awake, sitting up and turning around. His voice is smaller than intended. “What?”

“Yeah so you got to spoon all happy and warm while I had to suffer. Forgive me for being pissy.”

Oikawa completely ignores the owl, inevitably staring at Iwaizumi instead, who now has his eyes open, but looks confused as to what Bokuto has been talking about. “I have no memory of this,” Oikawa slowly words out.

Iwaizumi’s brows furrow, and he looks like his brain still needs some time to wake up.

“Yeah I’m not surprised,” Bokuto says from the side. ”Don’t think _he_ does, either, as he couldn’t even tell who or from which side was talking to him. Even though I said _Iwaizumi_ , not _Iwa-chan._ ”

“Sorry, bro,” Kuroo raises his head from behind Bokuto.

“Yeah whatevs, I’m hungry now cause I obviously spent all my energy reserves on maintaining my body temperature throughout the night,” he gets up to grab a slice of pizza off a plate on the floor.

“You mean _hangry_ ,” Kuroo notes.

“ _Ah??_ ”

“Nothin’.”

Oikawa feels distant from their squabbling.

_How the fuck do I have no recollection of this?_

He damns himself for having been unconscious, wondering what that would have felt like, had he been awake. Would it have felt safe? Being held by Iwaizumi?

_How would his arm feel over my waist? The weight of it?_

He damns himself for thinking something like that. It isn’t fair to him. He feels sick, dirty. He doesn't want to affect Iwaizumi with it.

He’s brought out of his thoughts by Iwaizumi’s hand on his forearm. He tries hard not to wince, hoping he succeeded.

“Hey, I’m sorry if that wasn’t okay,” he says quietly, studying the brunette’s expression.

“Huh?” Oikawa doesn’t quite catch up.

“I mean, like,” Iwaizumi rubs at the back of his neck, “you were sleeping so you couldn’t have said if you didn’t want it.”

Oikawa sort of reads too far into that, remembering things he wishes he’d never connect to Iwaizumi.

“I barely remember it myself, but. Sorry.”

“No-no,” Oikawa hurries to reply, “don’t worry about it. I don’t mind that kind of thing at all.”

Iwaizumi hums in thought, replying with an ‘okay’ that doesn’t sound fully convinced.

Oikawa wishes he could wipe the fatigue off Iwaizumi’s features that never seems to ease with sleep.

They eat breakfast together with the four of them, mostly last night’s leftovers and coffee, and Oikawa excuses himself, saying he has to study for a test he has on Monday.

He had no test that Monday.

He doesn’t see any more of Iwaizumi that Sunday, and by the time he gets back from his classes the next day, he’s already gone to work.

 

That evening, he gets a phone call he will later realize was an indication that his and Iwaizumi’s lives were about to undergo great change in the near future.


	5. Deranged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains more explicit sexual feelings and mentions of self-harm (no real-time self-harm scenes). Anyone who finds these subjects triggering, please be cautious and take care of yourself.  
> As usual, all comments/questions welcome, whether Solace-related or not (mental health/sexuality/gender/p much anything related).  
> You can also reach me at beneaththeskin.tumblr.com

_Derange [v. (used with object)]_

_1\. to throw into disorder; disarrange._

_2\. to disturb the condition, action, or function of._

_3\. to make insane._

 

Oikawa is slow to wake.

He has fallen into the habit of setting at least three alarms, each ten minutes apart, to make the getting up a little bit easier. He blindly closes the first one, often not even remembering it, which called for the necessity to add at least one. The second one usually has him half-conscious, closing it instantly and still lying down, promising himself he’ll get up in a minute. Sometimes it works, sometimes it makes him scare up some time later, not remembering having fallen asleep again. That’s why the third.

This Monday is the same – he’s glad he set a third alarm, or he would have slept in. And add in an 8am class on Mondays – he would have slept through the whole thing before he noticed.

He turns in bed, staring at the wall, tentatively moving his arm. Any little movement painfully tugs on the dressing, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers he was supposed to change it.

He pushes himself up, head feeling stuffy and heavy, and drags himself to the kitchen to make coffee first. He sits down behind the counter, glad there happened to be a chair there this time – likely from Iwaizumi’s room – and leans on the countertop with his forearms. The laminate feels cool against his skin, easing the discomfort somewhat. He slowly clenches and releases his fist, feeling how the skin moves.

_Messed up, didn’t I._

He waits for the water to boil, readying his cup with two large teaspoonfuls of coffee grounds and getting up with the help of his arms to get milk from the fridge. The coffee goes down quick, a bit too bitter for his liking, but containing caffeine all the same. Not much of a difference.

Once Oikawa gets back to his room, having washed the cup, the realization hits him – he was in the kitchen with just a shirt on. With his whole forearm in a bandage. With short sleeves. Where Iwaizumi could walk in any minute.

_What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck._

His sleep-addled brain instantly converts to fully alert. He closes the door with more force than intended, staying still against it for a moment, looking down at his arms.

_What the fuck was I thinking?_

A chill of disgust runs down his spine.

He knows Iwaizumi always sleeps in on his workdays so the chance is miniscule. But not completely out of the question. Iwaizumi could have seen.

_What would he say? What would he think?_

_He doesn’t need this shit._

Biting into his bottom lip, Oikawa goes and sits down on his bed, placing his arm on the bedside cupboard. He works to open the knot of the bandage, it not quite cooperating.

_Where even are my scissors?_

He gives up on trying to memory-search for them, pulling on the knot slightly until the fabric gives, becoming slightly loose. He tugs the bandage around and over his wrist, pulling it over his hand together with the knot.

When he manages to almost unwrap it, he finds the last few layers stuck to his skin again, having half a mind not to just rip it off along with the tissue stuck to it. Reaching for the antiseptic solution, his eyes stop on a package of ibuprofen, reminding him he was supposed to take those daily. He sprays the antiseptic on the remainder of the bandage and waits.

_Why did I cause Suga trouble?_

_Why do I keep causing Kou-chan trouble?_

Squeezing his arm close to the bandage, he wishes he didn’t always want to rip his own skin off. Drag it out, splay it around. Paint walls with the mess.

He remembers a time a while back where he left a bloody handprint on the bathroom mirror, how sickeningly good that felt for some reason. The washing off the evidence afterwards.

Blood on the floor. Blood in the sink.

Blood under his fingernails, sticking and clotting between his fingers.

For a moment he wonders why he even switched over to burning. There’s no relief of having your literal life force, its essence, warmly pouring out. Clearly visible. Tangible rivulets of it running down your skin, forming patterns. The packet of razors in his jacket pocket is vivid in his mind.

He studies the now-white traces of cuts on his forearm, feeling over them, how they’re clearly discernible if you knew to look. He recalls the scars on his hip and thigh, how they never even compared in satisfaction factor.

_My arm is completely fucked now, anyway. No reason to try to keep clear anymore, huh?_

He pulls on the bandage, securing the lower layer of it with his index finger to be able to pull them apart from each other. It sticks but comes loose, leaving just one last layer still in place. It for some reason doesn’t pull on the tissue beneath it, not painful at all, revealing the skin to be just as open as before, looking whiter and more uneven than the skin around it. Some of the paste is still on it, so he reaches into the drawer to look for a cotton pad, spraying antiseptic on it to dab the loose paste off.

Oikawa is lost in thought, looking at his tissue in display like that. It feels like nothing, like a piece of him is missing, with only sore edges left around where it was. He tries dabbing at it again, though there is no longer reason to, in slight disbelief that there really is zero feeling.

_Did I kill the nerves? Is that it?_

He sprays antiseptic directly on it, feeling the same foreign feeling – the edges feel sensitive and extra cold, while the inside – nothing. He flicks some leftover paste off, rubbing around the edges to clear them of anything that’s not supposed to be there, some of the skin there peeling off too.

He feels unreal, looking at it now. It’s a whole ten centimeter chunk of skin along his forearm that’s missing a few layers. Maybe not that many, eight? And now it looks like a whole collective burn, though made of plenty individual presses of ember. He notices it’s quite swollen all around, this forearm looking larger than the other one.

Getting a wad of gauze, putting the paste on it, securing it with a fresh bandage and tying it into a knot with practiced fingers, he notices the time.

_It took me a whole 15 minutes to change the dressing?_

Already bordering on late, he changes into his school clothes – proper jeans and a neutral-ish hoodie, barely remembering to at least grab a pack of almonds not to be running on fumes, and heads to class.

He keeps pulling on the sleeve of his hoodie throughout the day, trying to make sure it doesn’t run up too high on his arm, pulling the right one down too so as not to look too suspicious. His fingers feel numb at times, so he drops his arm under the table, clenching and releasing his fingers repeatedly, rubbing them with his other hand. He barely remembers the contents of the classes when they’re done.

 

Getting home, Oikawa just feels tired. Not sad, not angry, not anything. Just tired.

He lies down on his bed, as he usually does now, staring up at the ceiling. The arms folded over his midsection suddenly feel uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to feel hands on his stomach. He lays them on the blanket, as away from his body as possible, keeping them still. For some reason, the thought of moving them, even if slightly, sounds unsettling. As if his hands don’t belong to him.

He thinks of the homework he has to do. He thinks of the ibuprofen he was supposed to take. He thinks of the knee he was supposed to ice.

Clenching his fingers, he turns his head towards the pillow, breathing in deeply.

_I haven’t gotten off in ages._

_No, stop that._

While feeling gross, he knows he’s also feeling vaguely aroused, knows it would relieve some of the stress. Or at least have him forget the outside world for a bit, maybe be able to relax.

_It’s a good way to connect with your body, build positive associations with it._

That piece of advice feels hollow now.

He still slides his hand down to his thigh, rubbing firm patterns into it with his thumb. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back into the pillow. The muscles in his abdomen tighten and he cants his hips upward, purposefully avoiding direct contact. He tries to shift upwards in an attempt at having his underwear be less constricting. It doesn’t help, so he opens his jeans, pushing them down towards his thighs.

For some reason he ends up stopping there, holding onto the hem of his jeans. His thumbs play along the skin over his abdomen, the muscles in his stomach going rigid. He raises his head and looks down at the fabric of his boxers, the outline, dropping back on the pillow. He sighs through his nose.

_I’m not even particularly in the mood right now._

He still pushes at the fabric with the heel of his palm, hips slightly riding into it, holding onto his inner thigh with the other hand. He can feel his muscles relax into it, the pressure making him push his knees farther apart.

While wanting to feel more, he doesn’t want to touch himself directly, the skin on skin contact always having made him uneasy. The feel of it on his hand, while feeling the sensation of his hand on himself at the same time. Even though he has no problem touching someone else like that.

He gives himself a strong squeeze through the soft fabric, reaching over for the bottom drawer, knowing that otherwise he’d get into that agonizing cycle of _fuck why can’t I get off_ and _fuck fuck slow down_ that would get him raw and numb.

Something makes his jaw tighten, and not in pleasure. He looks down at the possible options, but doesn’t feel like putting anything inside right now.

_I knew that before already, didn’t I?_

_That it could feel incredibly good, but that it could also feel incredibly horrible._

_Even though That wasn’t even on that end of the spectrum._

With a pained groan, he pushes his forehead into his palm, the other hand still on his boxers. He curls further onto his side, running his fingertips up and down the fabric too soothe his distress. Keeping his breathing deep and leveled, he can feel himself slowly cool down, glad he wasn’t all that riled up to begin with.

He decides to take a nap, pushing the jeans off his feet and replacing them with the sweatpants from between the blanket and the wall, left there from the morning. Hugging the pillow to his face and chest, careful of his forearm, he stares at the wall for a while.

 

The next couple of hours are a stuffy haze of startling awake and feeling too warm, pushing the blanket off his waist yet not wanting to take off his hoodie for the protective feeling it gives. He gathers the hood better around his neck, burrowing into it, feeling more tired than sleepy, too exhausted to get up with the developing headache.

 

Later in the evening he gets a phone call.

“Oikawa? Are you home?”

Slightly disoriented, he recognizes the soft voice on the line, but something about it feels almost _too_ composed.

“Yeah?”

“Okay, great. We’re bringing Iwaizumi, so I wanted to call you in advance.”

_Bringing?_

“What?” Oikawa instinctively gets up from his bed, pushing off the blanket tangled around his feet. Wasn’t he supposed to be at work?

“We’re just coming from the hospital, and he’s on Vicodin so he’ll be pretty out of it when you see him. But don’t be frightened.”

“What?” Oikawa’s heartbeat is in his throat, and he tries to toe on his shoes with the help of one hand, voice not working quite right. “What happened? Is he okay?” He doesn’t even know where he’d be going, but he just wants to go to where Iwaizumi is, already gripping the handle of the door.

“There was, um, a difficult fire,” the words sound calculated. Oikawa can’t figure out what he’s missing. “He dislocated a shoulder but it’s been reduced.”

“ _Reduced_?” _What does that mean?_

“Right, sorry,” Sugawara backtracks, “it’s no longer dislocated.”

Oikawa sort of has to make sure if he’s still breathing, feeling at his ribcage, forehead against the door.

“We’ll be there in about ten minutes, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll be here…”

Oikawa feels like there’s no air. He pads over to the window in his room, opening it and draping himself over the windowsill, blood gradually starting to pool in his face. He looks down at the ground far away from him, feet hovering in the air, unsteady. He reconsiders, getting up suddenly, vision blacking out for a moment.

_What do I do?_

He can’t quite figure out what he’s supposed to be doing. They’ll be here soon. _What does Iwaizumi need?_ He hugs himself through his hoodie, thinking he should probably not be standing up, but unable to actually go and sit himself down. He decides to take off his shoes again, kicking them aside.

When he hears the soft knocks on the front door, he almost trips over his feet to open it. He’s faced with Iwaizumi leaning heavily on Sugawara, Daichi on the other side seeming not to offer much support, hand on Iwaizumi’s back.

“Iwa-,” Oikawa wants to call out to him, but Iwaizumi’s eyes are turned down, face blank with something really dark underneath it. He doesn’t look fully conscious, his left arm heavily over Sugawara’s shoulders, right arm in a sling.

“We should get him to sit down,” Sugawara quietly tries to guide him to the living room.

Iwaizumi seems reluctant, though, not moving along with him, trying to pull his arm free from Sugawara’s hold. He blindly rasps out, “Tooru,” in a weak, raspy – desperate – voice that Oikawa feels twisting inside his chest like a knife.

Oikawa doesn’t quite know how to respond, stepping closer, instinctively holding his arms out.

_Anything for you, Hajime._

_Anything, anything._

Iwaizumi tilts to the side slightly, raising his arm over Sugawara’s head and towards the brunette, grabbing ahold the side of Oikawa’s hoodie. He slumps against the brunette with a high-pitched pained cry, one the likes of which none of them have ever heard come out of Iwaizumi’s mouth, trying to curl into himself against Oikawa’s neck.

Oikawa tries to support Iwaizumi’s weight without further agitating his arm, holding onto his hip on that side. He feels a sudden crushing wave of helplessness, looking to Sugawara for any sort of guidance, but only getting a compassionate expression in return. He feels Iwaizumi’s slow but shallow-sounding breaths on his skin, feeling his mind start to travel.

Not knowing what else to do, he keeps whispering ‘it’s okay, it’s okay’ into Iwaizumi’s hair, not daring to move much or hug him very tight in fear of hurting him. He damns his recent lack of proper exercise, wishing he could support Iwaizumi more firmly.

With gentle coaxing and Sugawara’s help, they manage to back Iwaizumi into the living room and onto the couch, him pulling Oikawa down with him, who tries to break the fall as much as possible with his hands, ending up leaning on Iwaizumi’s other shoulder with his forehead.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Oikawa repeats, afraid he might have hurt him, and for some reason reluctant in instigating physical contact. He slides over to Iwaizumi’s left side, hands slightly hovering, unsure of what to do.

Iwaizumi just breathes, eyes looking disoriented, reaching to intertwine his fingers with the brunette’s, sliding down the couch slightly.

Oikawa squeezes the hand gently, feeling Iwaizumi’s fingers stay lax between his, unresponsive. He wants to do something, anything, and considers hugging Iwaizumi into the couch, or cupping his cheek, or petting his hair. None of what he comes up with feels appropriate.

_But we’ve already spooned once. No, twice?_

He wants to show that he’s attentive, and knows how endorphin works, knows that it would likely help Iwaizumi, and knows Iwaizumi is seeking his contact right now.

_I can’t do it._

Oikawa goes rigid, keeping the hold on Iwaizumi’s hand but trying to remain still.

_I don’t want to do something you don’t want._

_I don’t want to risk that chance._

_Would you even tell me if I did?_

His breath stutters out of his lungs, making his ribs weigh heavy on them. He doubts Iwaizumi is in a state to answer honestly even if he asked if something was okay.

Sugawara crouches down next to them then with two glasses of water, making Oikawa’s heart skip a beat for a moment.

_Right._

Oikawa smiles tight-lipped, taking one glass with his free hand and holding it out to Iwaizumi, who for a moment just stares down at it like he doesn’t know what it’s there for, though instinctively gulping heavily. With Oikawa’s help, hovering under the glass with his own uninjured hand, Iwaizumi manages to drink most of the water, eventually wincing, eyebrows pulled together.

“Sorry, you okay?” Oikawa worries, gripping at the mostly-empty glass.

Iwaizumi gulps with difficulty. “Voice-,” he rasps out, struggling, “throat hurts.”

“Then don’t talk,” Oikawa’s face drops further, “don’t talk.”

He notices Sugawara again, holding out the other glass of water to the brunette, smiling gently.

“Have some.”

Oikawa doesn’t understand how Suga looks this calm. _What happened?_ He notices his mouth has been slightly ajar, closing it blinking his eyes heavily. He still accepts the glass with a “Thank you.” Once the water runs down his throat, he notices how dry it was, and how dry it still feels even after drinking.

He can’t stop glancing at Iwaizumi, the eyes open but heavily glazed over, features hanging heavily too. He can’t meet his gaze though, Iwaizumi constantly looking down somewhere in the distance, making Oikawa grow increasingly anxious.

_Is he angry? Did I do something?_

There’s a soft pat on the brunette’s shoulder, making him look up.

“Why don’t you get ready for bed?” the angel whispers, “If it’s fine, we’ll stay over with Daichi?”

Oikawa glances over at the man beside Sugawara, mind taking a bit too long to catch up, staring obtusely. He notices how Daichi’s usually sturdy frame is somehow tilted at the moment. And he just now notices Suga’s hold on the man’s waist.

“I sprained my ankle,” Daichi slightly sheepishly starts, “it’s not bad, but I won’t be going into work for a while either. If it’s alright, I could help Iwaizumi with household things and such while he recovers. As you have classes.”

Oikawa lowers his head in thought. That didn’t even occur to him yet.

“Um. Yeah. How long do you think that’ll be?” _It looks so serious._ He tries not to show his fast-forming panic.

“He’ll have an appointment in two weeks to see how his shoulder is doing. It’s quite individual,” Sugawara explains. “Later on physiotherapy, to regain normal movement. And he has about 4 days’ worth of Vicodin right now.”

“That’s a strong pain killer, right?” he asks monotonously.

“Yes, it’s quite potent. He should not be in much pain,” Sugawara looks at Iwaizumi on the couch, “though as you see, he will be quite light-headed. Drowsy.”

Oikawa looks too, not even quite sure what he’s seeing anymore. _Is he hearing what we’re saying?_

Sugawara urges him to go the bathroom and wash up, asking to borrow one of their mattresses to lay on the floor next to the couch for himself and Daichi. It ends up being Iwaizumi’s.

“Is it fine if I get both of your blankets from your rooms too?” Sugawara asks while pulling the coffee table closer to the wall.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Oikawa barely registers what he’s answering to.

“Or do you want to sleep in your room? That’s fine too, of course, we’ll be here.”

Oikawa looks up to find Iwaizumi looking back at him in a moment of clarity, eyes still feeling far away. He’s slightly apprehensive, not knowing how to respond to it.

Iwaizumi opens his mouth only to close it in a half-cough, making the brunette crouch down in front of him, eyes sincere and searching. He reaches out his left arm, Oikawa taking it between his own and resting them over Iwaizumi’s knee.

“Will-,” the voice is but a raspy whisper, “will you stay here, with me?”

“Of course,” Oikawa sighs sharply, face contorting. _Why does he look so fragile asking that?_

Iwaizumi closes his eyes with the ghost of a smile, hand slightly twitching between the brunette’s, looking beyond exhausted.

Something clicks in Oikawa’s mind that has his doubt erode away a bit, making him get up and sit himself down, gently hugging Iwaizumi’s head under his chin. He feels Iwaizumi grab ahold of his hoodie again, burrowing further into the hold.

_This is definitely the right choice._

While reassuring himself, he still takes note to pay attention to Iwaizumi’s reactions, but he can’t sense anything that would indicate reluctance or discomfort. Iwaizumi’s breaths sound steady, and his cheek is pressed to the brunette’s skin.

Oikawa knows they should probably lie down, and tries to gather Iwaizumi’s attention enough to have him follow without hurting his shoulder with the movement. He guides Iwaizumi to lie down on his left side, lying on his back to offer his shoulder up to him as a pillow, mindful not to move the sling more than necessary.

“Is-, is your shoulder okay like this?” Oikawa asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

Iwaizumi subtly nods into the brunette’s neck, “Think-, so.”

Oikawa feels Iwaizumi’s muscles quickly relax against him, likely because of the Vicodin. Or maybe exhaustion. His mind travels again to what might have happened. _A difficult fire?_ _What did he mean by that?_

He feels overwhelmed. He doesn’t know what exactly happened. Iwaizumi’s shoulder. His current mental state. Daichi’s ankle. Suga’s uncharacteristic… something that he can’t quite place. He feels like he can’t ask. Like something would break if he did. And Iwaizumi’s body is all alongside his own, the head on him, the arms against his side, the legs somehow tangled between his, the back he feels under his arm. It’s almost a sensory overload. He just now notices there’s actually a pillow under his head – Sugawara?

He curses his body for trying to shiver again, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath trying to pretend it’s all fine.

_It’s fine, it’s fine._

_Relax. Breathe._

He feels Iwaizumi’s breath rattle against his neck, the realization he’s not asleep yet hitting him like an icy sting down his spine.

The voice that comes out is a raspy “Sorry.”

“What?” Oikawa is taken by surprise, voice turning weak. “You’ve no reason to be sorry.” _Whatever it is, it’s all fine._

A grunt rattles in Iwaizumi’s chest, reverberating against the brunette. “Didn’t mean to-, be a bother,” the words are slow but deliberate, “you really don’t have to-”

“What?” Oikawa tries to catch his breath, “No-no, it’s all fine, don’t worry about it. Chill.”

_‘Chill’? Why’d I say that?_

Iwaizumi’s breath grinds through his throat again.

“Do you want some water?” Oikawa raises his head up slightly.

Iwaizumi tries to hum in approval, but the sound catches in his throat. He can’t help but cough a bit, trying to pull his arm out from under the brunette to hide it but unable to move without the help of his other arm. He can’t help but wince in pain from having automatically tried to move the muscles in his shoulder.

“Don’t move, don’t move,” Oikawa tries to still him with a palm on his ribs, reaching for a glass on the floor, no longer sure if originally his or Iwaizumi’s. He holds it to his mouth, steadying his chin with his other hand, familiar with the concept of holding each other’s glasses. He wipes the little bit that spills off with the sleeve of his hoodie.

Iwaizumi tilts his head back in indication he’s had enough, whispering “Thanks,” having given up on his voice for now.

They lie back down, Iwaizumi’s breaths gradually growing deeper and less rattled, settled against the brunette’s neck.

Oikawa drifts.

_Why am I so useless? Why can’t I be of more help?_

_Why?_

_What do I do?_

His mind is on Iwaizumi’s pained breaths, the shoulder that was literally _dislocated_ , which must have hurt like nothing in this world, especially considering he’s on hospital-grade pain killers.

_You shouldn’t be with me here like this. You should be with someone better. Someone who actually knows how to support you._

_I should hurt worse than you._

He can’t help but let out a self-deprecating snort of laughter, trying not to let it reverberate through himself so as not to disturb Iwaizumi.

_I should hurt way worse than you._

He can hear the hypocritical element in contains, though. It makes his face contort.

_I want to be good. I want to be someone who’d deserve you, if just for that fact._

_I won’t try to be with you but, why can’t I be better?_

_Why am I so-, so-…_

He chews on the inside of his cheek.

_Dirty. Tainted._

_Vile._

He feels the sting behind his eyes, in his nose.

_Why can’t I properly support you when you most need it?_

_Why am I not good enough?_

 

He can’t help the tears now blurring his vision, already threatening to overflow. He curses himself for not being able to control his own emotions, a sob half-caught in his throat. He presses his free hand over his mouth to try contain it, the bandage pulling on his wound, but tears are already running down past his ears.

There’s some rustling sound, making him suck in a breath, acutely reaware that it wasn’t just the two of them in the room. He tries to quiet down, ending up holding his breath, which makes him slightly gag instead, breathing turning high-pitched.

He smiles wide, self-deprecatingly, almost wanting to laugh at his unsightly state.

_I’m so pathetic._

“Hey,” the soft voice starts, near-quiet, “hey, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t look, hiding his eyes behind the back of his hand, covering a new wave of tears. “Sorry,” his breath hitches, a hollow laugh following.

“It’s okay,” Sugawara assures. “It’s okay.”

A gentle hand settles in his hair, tentative at first as the brunette’s breath hitches at it, but gradually carding firmer through the strands.

Oikawa can’t help but suddenly cry harder, desperately trying to smother his noises.

_Don’t be this kind to me._

_I don’t deserve it._

Sugawara keeps whispering that it’s okay, hand continuing its reassuring movement. “I’m sorry we suddenly put you in this situation,” he whispers with a soothing voice. “He could have stayed with us, too, but he really wanted to come home.”

“What?” he can’t help but react, voice too nasal for his liking. He raises his hand slightly, looking at Suga through the tears.

“I think he really wanted to see you.”

Oikawa’s arm tightens over Iwaizumi’s back, half-thinking he misheard that. He pushes at his eyes, trying to stop the tears, wiping them away on his sleeve, glad that Iwaizumi seems to be deep in sleep.

After a while, Sugawara’s hand halts a bit in his hair. He leans a bit closer, gently tapping on the brunette’s wrist, whispering “Have you changed the dressing already?”

Oikawa hums, “Yeah. Just this morning.”

“Is it looking okay?”

He thinks for a moment. “Ugly. Gross. But didn’t look infected.”

Sugawara hums back in thought. “Have you been taking ibuprofen?”

“Uuhm,” he feels slightly embarrassed, “as much as I have remembered. I haven’t really been in that state of mind.” He wonders why he’s suddenly being honest. He can feel Sugawara’s gaze on him, though it doesn’t feel judging.

“Would you take some now?”

“Sure. Okay.”

From the corner of his eye he can see Sugawara dig through a bag, coming up with a sheet of probably ibuprofen. He accepts the two pills and the water, downing them one by one, feeling impossibly drained by this point, though the tears have stopped. His eyes feel sore and heavy. He hands the glass back to Suga with a “Thank you,” receiving a warm smile in return.

“Of course.”

A moment passes, and he sees Sugawara lose some of usual radiant composure. “You know,” he starts, sincerely looking the brunette in the eye, “I hope you know you can always talk to me. To us.”

Oikawa is slightly surprised by this, though feeling like he should have expected it somehow. “Yeah. You too,” he hurries to reply, “same to you.”

Sugawara’s brow furrows somewhat, though it quickly converts back to his usual gentle expression. “Thank you.” There’s a small sigh, “I’m always here, whatever it is.”

Oikawa tries for a smile of his own, somehow feeling like he’s lost touch of how to move his muscles for it, hoping it doesn’t look unsettling. He closes his eyes for a moment, half in hope of ending this conversation rather sooner than later.

“Right, you should get some sleep,” Sugawara briefly pets his hair again. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, just say so. We’re right on the floor here.”

“Thanks. ‘night.”

“Good night.”

He can hear Sugawara settling back down under the covers, next do Daichi on the floor. There’s some sound of whispering, but he can’t make out the words. Tilting his head back, he tries to just relax into sleep.

It doesn’t work.

His muscles feel weirdly sore, and he wants to turn around. He usually sleeps on his side, and usually turns around a couple of times before he’s able to fall asleep. Now he can’t do that, as Iwaizumi is lodged against him, so he gives up, stubbornly trying to just fall unconscious.

It takes longer than he’d like to remember, even with Iwaizumi’s presence so close to him.

 

The morning is slow.

Oikawa wakes even more sore, neck painfully rigid. He’s woken by Sugawara with gentle taps on his shoulder, at first not even reacting to it.

“Sorry to wake you, but you should likely be heading to class soon.”

That jolts him awake alright. He had forgotten to set an alarm. He instinctively tries to move upright, wincing at the pain in his neck, but discovers that he can’t quite move – Iwaizumi is still half over him.

It takes some careful shifting and shimmying to free his arm and legs, and he lingers for a moment, looking at Iwaizumi’s sleeping expression. He feels bad for doing that, deciding to go wash up instead.

While he brushes his teeth, his eyes are glued to the sink below him.

He spits into it with more force than necessary, and moves on to washing his face.

When he returns to the kitchen in proper jeans, he discovers Sugawara to have made breakfast for them.

“You want coffee, right?” the voice is vibrant but quiet enough not to disturb the other two’s sleep. “There should still be time for that.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he moves over to the counter, getting himself a cup, feeling an odd sense of unworthiness, though realizing this is just breakfast. He helps himself for some scrambled eggs and tomatoes, sipping at the coffee while leant against the countertop. He glances over at Iwaizumi, as if checking if he’s still okay. Although knowing he wasn’t to begin with.

“Can I say something?” Sugawara suddenly asks with a slightly unsure voice, uncharacteristic of him.

Oikawa automatically raises an eyebrow, continuing eating. “Sure? Shoot.”

Sugawara hums, “Just, um, I was thinking,” he looks down at his lap, as if trying not to fiddle with his fingers. “I used to hurt myself, in high school.”

Oikawa’s breath catches in his throat, food suddenly feeling ashen in his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he backtracks, holding up a hand, “I know I might be overstepping a boundary here. I’m really sorry.”

“No,” Oikawa turns monotonous in shock, “don’t worry.”

“It’s just,” he gives a pained smile, “I just wanted to say that it can get better. That might seem impossible at first, but.”

Oikawa looks down. He knew that Sugawara had probably figured this out since he asked for his help. This, however, is beyond his calculations.

“I know it can be really hard,” Sugawara looks near about to cry, though visibly trying to school his expression. “Just, if there’s anything I can do, please, don’t hesitate. Even if it’s just me listening.”

Oikawa tries but cannot figure out a way to respond, mouth falling ajar, feeling somehow raw and exposed.

“Don’t have to, of-, of course,” Sugawara worriedly backtracks again. “Just so you know.”

To his own surprise, Oikawa is able to say a very genuine “Thank you,” looking him in the eyes. He feels a sense of empathy for him, feeling way more protective of Sugawara’s wellbeing than his own. He doesn’t want to think of him hurting like that, knowing how agonizing it can be. He almost wants to hug his pain away, something twisting at his own chest at the thought.

He has never once thought that in relation to himself.

_Is this how Kou-chan has been feeling, in relation to me?_

He suddenly feels sorry for Bokuto, having put him through this.

 

Oikawa leaves for class feeling vulnerable in an entirely new way, afraid for the future, but feeling like a small ‘something’ in his chest has somehow been healed.

 

He hates himself for it.

 

He’s not supposed to heal.


	6. Frail

_Frail (adj)_

_1\. having delicate health; not robust; weak_

_2\. easily broken or destroyed; fragile_

_3\. morally weak; easily tempted._

 

Oikawa is sitting in his Comparative International Law class, staring out the window, mouth ajar. A lot has happened lately, but he barely registers a change in his emotions. He keeps picturing Iwaizumi’s disoriented, distant eyes. He keeps picturing the compassionate smile that weighed heavier on Sugawara’s features than any smile should.

_I should be feeling something, shouldn’t I?_

He almost wants to feel at his ribcage, though knowing that’s no source of clues. The persistent pain in his knee is about the only thing keeping him connected, the knee supporter thankfully easing it somewhat.

Next he knows, he’s hyperfocused on the professor’s words, which counteractively has none of the meaning of the content register between his ears, almost foreignizing the words to him instead.

_Legislative power, legislature… legis, legis… legit?_

_No, that’s not it._

He tries to sigh discreetly, so as not to draw attention to himself, pushing his glasses up to rub at the bridge of his nose.

His mind drifts to Sugawara’s words from the morning – _he used to hurt himself?_

_Used to?_

_Does that mean he doesn’t anymore?_

Oikawa somehow finds it hard to believe, not quite sure why, since that was the first time he’d talked to someone who has done something like this other than himself.

_Wait._

_I’m sure I’ve talked to people like that – I just must not have been aware._

He clenches his left hand into a fist, bending it back and forth to feel how it tugs on his wound every time he bends it back.

_Of course it hurts. But why is that such a-_

He recalls Sugawara’s expression. It was difficult to tell whether his face was pained because it was a sore personal detail, or because he felt empathy.

_But why would he be so concerned about me for something like this?_

It doesn’t click. Oikawa doesn’t feel sorry for himself at all. More than that, there’s a sick sense of pleasure – he almost revels in the fact that he’s getting punished. It sends a very familiar shiver down his spine.

_I’m getting exactly what I deserve._

_Less, if we’re being exact here._

The beginning of a self-deprecating grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

However, if it wasn’t for concern, whyever would Sugawara even have told him this? It must not have been easy, anyone who knows him even a little could have figured out that his composure was quickly crumbling. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. Why would he go through all that trouble?

Oikawa’s inner monologue is cut short, as his vision blurs and his head jerks downwards, making his hands clench against the table in front of him.

_Get it together, get it together._

The lack of proper sleep has taken a toll on him, making him dig his fingernails into his palms to stay more-or-less alert. He looks up at the board, feeling incredibly lucky that this professor almost never tries to go for a dialogue style, as he finds himself to have missed quite a chunk of this lecture.

He actually goes for a proper lunch at the campus cafeteria, adding in a double espresso, painfully aware of what that does for his jitter factor. He folds his glasses and rests them in their case well before the end of his last class, wanting to rub his hands into his brow bones but refraining from it.

 

Oikawa doesn’t remember much of the way home, vaguely recalling that Daichi is supposed to be there this time, with Sugawara likely joining later. He wonders if it’s his knee shivering or if it’s anxiety or fatigue, hesitantly reaching for his keys yet realizing the door is likely unlocked.

It is, so he quietly steps in and toes off his shoes, his knee subtly screaming in pain when he leans all his weight on his right foot.

_Stupid, stupid body._

He sets his laptop bag aside, softly stepping towards the living room, trying to keep weight off his more-or-less incapacitated foot.

His stomach drops, not really knowing what he had expected, when he turns the corner to Iwaizumi lying on the couch with his head on Daichi’s lap, propped up on a pillow, the other man’s hands softly caressing him. You would think he was asleep if it weren’t for his half-open eyes, his body completely still under the sturdy man’s ministrations, the fingers brushing along his scalp and his collarbone.

They don’t immediately notice the brunette with the sounds of a movie playing in the background, though neither of them seem all that focused on it. Daichi turns his head when a floorboard lightly creaks under Oikawa’s feet, halting the fingers in Iwaizumi’s hair.

“Hey,” the voice is uncharacteristically soft, same as the atmosphere in this room.

Oikawa gives an apologetic smile in return, taking a few leveled steps towards the couch. He approaches Iwaizumi’s line of sight, meeting dull grey that appears fairly glazed over. “Hey,” he offers, trying not to very obviously chew at his bottom lip.

“Hi.”

The brokenness still present in the voice renders any ghost of a smile that had formed on Oikawa’s face into inexistence, making it difficult to breathe.

Before the brunette could go into overdrive, Iwaizumi folds his legs more to make room for him to sit, face as inanimate at it has been since last night.

Oikawa tries hard not to limp as he crosses the small distance to the other end of the couch, turning on his left foot and slowly lowering himself down. He feels heavy, leaning back and letting his arms drop by his sides, when Iwaizumi’s feet tentatively settle over his lap.

“Is this okay?” he grates out.

An affirmative hum breaks in Oikawa’s throat, so he hurries to replace it with a “Yeah.” He can’t bring himself to look straight at Iwaizumi, wondering where he should place his arms. He knows Iwaizumi likely needs the contact right now, and is the one who initiated it. The idea of hugging his knees to his chest pops up in his mind.

_Being okay with one thing doesn’t mean you’re okay with everything else._

He settles for lightly rubbing Iwaizumi’s calf with his thumb, quietly sighing in relief when he feels the muscles under his fingers relax a fraction. He leans his head towards the side against the couch, feeling like he has to swallow but unable to let himself, eyes on Iwaizumi’s arm in the sling. A pair of fingers moving to brush against the sleeve of his hoodie catch his attention, his arm twitching despite his will to keep still.

Their eyes lock, catching Oikawa by chilling surprise, his gaze flying away from muddled grey.

_Calm down, calm down._

_That’s a cold response._

He turns his palm up to accept Iwaizumi’s hand, smoothing down the fabric of his sweatpants with the other, giving his ankle a reassuring squeeze. Unable to regulate his heartbeat, he fixates on keeping his hand motionless in Iwaizumi’s fingers, eyes swimming in and out of focus leant against the back of the couch. He can vaguely feel himself shiver.

Iwaizumi’s fingers are delicate and warm, soothing over the brunette’s knuckles, his breathing slowly evening out.

 

Oikawa jolts awake with his mouth open and a painful kink in his neck, leaning forward to try stretch it out. He bumps against what he realizes are Iwaizumi’s legs still over his lap, curling his chest in a bit so as not to be in the way. He raises his arms to rest the heels of his palms against his eyelids, leaning back down and taking a deep breath through his nose. Fingers softly tapping against his hip bone sharply alert him.

“You should sleep more,” the spiritless voice tries.

Oikawa weakly groans in response, letting his arms drop back down. “Can’t. I have to research Montesquieu.”

His gaze drifts to the kitchen corner, stopping on Daichi who appears to be sitting on a chair cooking something, then on Iwaizumi lying along the couch with a set of pillows under his upper back. Something squeezes at the centre of his chest, making him want to scramble to get away.

“I’m-, I’ll get some coffee, do you want any-” he tentatively goes for lifting Iwaizumi’s legs, only to easily be pushed back into the couch by them, his breath puffing out in surprise.

“No more coffee for Tiredkawa,” the voice sounds serious, albeit husky, Iwaizumi’s knee settling against the brunette’s chest to hold him in place. “You look like you’ll get a heart attack if you get any more caffeine in your system.”

Oikawa breathes out a laugh through his nose thinking on his earlier espresso shots.

“I can easily take you even with,” Iwaizumi vaguely gestures to his incapacitated arm, “this.”

The brunette hums, feeling a lump form in his throat. He tries for a laugh, mostly failing, swallowing against it. Sliding his arms over instead of under Iwaizumi’s legs, he leans on them slightly, settling a cheek on his knee.

Iwaizumi releases the strength from his legs, letting the brunette lean forward onto them when he’s satisfied he’s no longer trying for intoxicating himself, reaching up to gently squeeze at his bicep through the hoodie.

Oikawa drifts in the almost-embrace, distractedly registering the sounds coming from the kitchen corner. Closing his eyes, he feels his breathing become steadier and his muscles starting to relax slightly. Iwaizumi’s hand moves from his bicep to rub down the brunette’s shoulder blade and back, making him lightly shiver for a moment, then start to relax again under the attention.

He feels drained, sapped of all the energy he had had left.

Uneven steps approach soon, making Oikawa reluctantly raise his head slightly to see Daichi bringing food to the coffee table. Iwaizumi pats his shoulder blade lightly, attempting to start pushing himself up into a sitting position on one arm. Oikawa’s mind clicks back into focus, and he turns to help, offering leverage so Iwaizumi is able to pull himself up without angling his upper body too much, sliding his legs off the brunette’s lap one by one.

“I made mashed potatoes,” Daichi returns to the table with a handful of tableware, gait uneven as he seems to keep weight off his ace bandaged ankle, “and some salad. It should be quite easy to eat.”

Iwaizumi hums, “Thank you.”

Oikawa leans forward towards the table, though not particularly hungry, his knee stinging from the movement. He eyes the small transparent container on the table in front of Iwaizumi, the label reading hydrocodone-acetaminophen, realizing that must be the pain medicine.

Daichi returns a third time with glasses and orange juice, setting them on the table and sitting down on Iwaizumi’s other side, squeezing above his knee reassuringly before offering him a spoon.

Oikawa feels vaguely sick, feeling bad for letting himself indulge in Iwaizumi’s affections while he is clearly the one most in need of support. His eyes stop on the tomato-cucumber-lettuce salad cut into small cubes likely for easier eating as Iwaizumi only has his left hand at the moment. Then his eyes travel to Iwaizumi’s closed laptop on the farther end of the table, zoning out.

_Daichi is so considerate._

He looks down at his hands on his lap.

_Why am I not?_

He feels Iwaizumi nudge him in the shoulder, and sees him holding two spoons in his left hand, pointing the handle of one towards the brunette to offer it to him. He takes it with a thin-lipped smile.

They eat in a mostly comfortable silence, Oikawa trying to stop his mind from traveling too far, side-eyeing how slowly Iwaizumi is eating, trying not to play with his own food.

_That’s not helping. Self-deprecation isn’t helping._

So he sets his mind on doing whatever he can to help.

He volunteers to do the dishes and put the leftovers away for Suga, biting into his cheek walking back and forth between the coffee table and kitchen corner, his knee giving out at one point in front of the fridge. He ignores the way it jerks and keeps weight off it as long as he’s staying still, barely breathing so as not to make a sound and make one of the _actually injured_ people do the work for him.

They settle back on the couch with the three of them, Oikawa bringing his laptop along, the others deciding to put another movie to quietly play in the background. He feels himself go lax against the back of the couch, weirdly not wanting to let himself blink, pressing his forearm against the edge of the laptop on his thighs.

The words try to reassemble themselves on the screen, blurring and foreign in their appearance. Halfway through he forgets who the article was on, scrolling back to the beginning to thump the intro into his head.

His mind is preoccupied with trying to come up with ways to help Iwaizumi, glancing his way. The man looks lifeless, lying back against the couch, seeming the kind of tired that isn’t cured by sleep. The thought that his eyes even reflect light seems somehow perplexing.

He wants to ask how he could help, working through ways to word it so as not to imply… things. Things that he doesn’t want to word in fear of being patronizing.

The thought process is cut short by the click of the front door, Oikawa’s heartbeat picking up for a few seconds. He turns to see Suga standing in the doorway with a warm smile, trying to return it but not quite sure he succeeded.

“Hi,” the gentle voice greets, turning from the others to Daichi, leaning down to place a soft kiss on his forehead, smoothing his hair down with his palm.

“Hey,” Daichi replies, hand brushing over the angel’s hip.

“How is everyone doing?” he leans against the arm of the couch next to Daichi, hand settling over his shoulders, the other man’s fingers automatically lacing around his waist.

Iwaizumi gives a noncommittal hum to that, voice scratching slightly less than earlier, “The same.”

“Can you rate your pain for me?”

He takes a deep breath, humming again, “A four? It’s not the worst.”

“When did you last take your Vicodin?”

“When we ate. Just before.”

Suga hums in understanding. “No side effects so far? Nausea?”

Iwaizumi deflates slightly. “No. Not that I know of.”

“Okay. Let me know if anything feels off.”

Iwaizumi nods curtly, the angel’s eyebrows knit together in thinly veiled worry.

“How is the swelling?” he smoothes over the fabric of Daichi’s shirt, the man slightly leaning into his chest and tightening the hold around his waist.

“It’s alright. Doesn’t hurt much unless I twist it or something.”

“Mm.”

Oikawa feels himself tune to an off channel. Not a different channel entirely, but a wavelength not quite attuned to his surroundings. He stares at the screen on his lap, vaguely registering some of the words spoken around him, tapping his index finger on the laptop’s corpus as a means of attempting to focus. He can’t decide whether to try to listen to or read words.

The next paragraph swims in his vision, making his eyes run back and forth over the words.

“Oikawa?”

Suddenly he registers that all the eyes in the room are on him. His heart beat spikes, a gulp catching in his throat which he morphs into a quiet cough. “Sorry, what?” his eyes skit to the angel’s and back towards nothing, direct eye contact feeling vaguely uncomfortable.

“Are you feeling okay?”

The gentle quality to the voice makes him feel somehow small.

“Yeah, yeah,” he breathes, waving a hand in his direction dismissingly. “Sorry, I’m kinda distracted, what with this, this…” he gestures to the laptop in front of him. He doesn’t look at the expression that must be on Suga’s face, feeling his own skin turn way too warm under the attention. He feels slight burning behind his eyes, silently praying they’ll just leave him be.

_Of course not._

Suddenly there’s a hand on his lower back, making him shut his eyes with a sharp intake of breath. The hand moves up and down comfortingly, palm flat on the brunette’s skin, yet capturing his senses to what he’s feeling way too harshly. His breath shudders, air not quite filling his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. He feels compelled not to make a sound, the lack of air making him silently half-choke on forming gasps.

He wishes on the hand to stop moving along his skin.

“I don’t believe you.”

Oikawa goes rigid under the hand sliding over his waist, the chin rested on his shoulder.

_Please stop._

He can’t bring himself to say it, nor to escape the touch, noticing with horror how his body is starting to tremble. His arms, his shoulders, his neck.

_Please stop please stop please stop please-_

He can feel his lungs burning, the muscles in his arms screaming from the strain, firmly against his sides. After a moment his chest languidly deflates halfway, unbreathing mouth hanging ajar, eyes dragging open to fix on the opposing wall, heartbeat in his throat.

_Move._

_Move move move._

The offending mass of fire stays fixed to his skin, latched onto his back all the way from his waist to his neck, fragmentary waves of sound cutting into his skull.

His thighs feel sickly heavy.

_Move you stupid body._

He can feel his chest spasm in pain under the pressure of his panicked lungs, his jaw and neck clenching.

_It’s your fault you’re not moving._

The vague feeling of burning eyes and lungs starts to drown beneath the surface, the heavy, claustrophobic air oppressing him from all sides, mind foggy with an unclear urgency.

His eyes fix on a different wall in the same direction. There is no colour to it, but it’s too bright.

He can feel his body fade but his eyes stay on that wall.

His arm itches with the vague desire to sink his teeth in it.

His eyes shut tight.

_Don’t move._

_Stay still._

The wall stays in his vision despite the effort of his eyelids.

The phantom feeling of rattling under his elbows makes him clench his arms against his forehead.

The feeling of skin grating between his teeth.

_This is nothing. It’s just pain._

His eyebrows crease, teeth digging into his cheeks.

_You have a high pain tolerance, remember?_

The feeling of particular skin between his teeth and against his tongue floods his senses. The sudden memory of the distinct smell induces a strong gag reflex that he has to swallow against, chest heaving. He blindly leans forward over his knees, letting gravity lower him to the floor, digging his back flat against the solid surface of the couch and silencing his breaths.

_That’s not just pain._

_I don’t control it._

His jaw clenches in disgust, arms pressing over his stomach, cheek digging into the coldness of the floor. He feels protective of his abdomen.

_Don’t touch me._

His knees dig into each other, bones grating with the movement, his skin crawling in various places.

_Don’t touch me._

 

The flurry of sensations continues to flicker back and forth until he realizes there are hands in the front of his vision, thoughts languidly attempting to regather focus. The unsettling inability to quite remember what just happened weighs heavy on his mind, yet his eyes stay unmoving. His muscles are completely lax against the floor, sapped of any energy they had had left. He considers moving the fingers in front of his chest but can’t quite summon the energy to do it, stuck in stupor.

His own slow, almost calculated breaths catch his attention with intrigue, barely feeling like it’s his own lungs moving inside him. Or him moving them. His eyes toggle in and out of focus painfully, yet he somehow can’t bring himself to blink.

He vaguely senses one of the hands moving away and returning to slide a glass in front of his face with whispered words that he doesn’t quite catch.

He feels like his ears are ringing yet he knows he heard the words. The sound did reach but the meaning didn’t.

A liquid silence hangs in the air.

Eventually he forces his eyes shut, trying to squeeze the dry burning out of them. He blinks heavily, slowly dragging his eyes upward to settle just below Sugawara’s face. He scans the man’s sitting frame, listlessly lowering his gaze back down.

His eyes scan the glass in front of him.

“It’s water.”

The voice is barely a whisper.

His throat is infinitely dry yet he can’t but gulp, remaining otherwise unmoving.

Tentative footsteps sound from somewhere across the room, his stomach suddenly dropping.

“It’s okay,” the voice is quiet and calm.

“Just keep breathing.”

He does, noting how his body conveys no message as to how he’s feeling – _what am I feeling? –_ staying still and lax.

His eyes move over to Iwaizumi stopping by them, a vague ache tugging at his core.

Another whisper.

“Are you okay?”

His vision swims over to the coffee table, farther away than it should be. _Did they move it?_

“I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows crease the slightest bit, catching the worried gaze. “Why?”

He finds his voice hoarser than he’d like, perplexed as to why the other two share a weird look, not quite able to read it. He catches sight of his laptop settled on the corner of the table, disinterestedly sensing Sugawara slightly leaning towards him.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

He keeps his eyes on the table.

“Or would you like me to bring you a blanket?”

After a long moment he decides to push himself upright, head stinging with the movement. It takes a few paces for the vertigo to settle. He slowly turns with the helps of his hands, scouring the room. He makes two full circles before settling back down and taking a deep breath.

“My phone,” his eyes keep scanning the area.

His eyes follow how Sugawara moves to stand up, how he looks around and then walks to the table, picking something up from beside the laptop. The man returns with a phone in his hand, making Oikawa fix his stare on it for a long moment.

It clicks sharply, and he reaches for the phone, trying not to bump into the man’s fingers.

“Thanks,” he looks down at the phone in his hands. “Test in the morning,” he says more to himself, tapping to set several alarms as a precaution.

The fact that he doesn’t even remember what the test is supposed to be on quietly beeps in the background of his mind, stuck under the fog.

Pushing the phone into his pocket, he grabs onto his knees to drag himself up, wavering on his feet. He starts to pad towards his room, limbs heavy with exhaustion, a strong limp making his gait uneven.

Quiet steps follow him. He heavily sits on his bed, looking up to see Sugawara by the doorway with the glass of water, settling it on his nightstand.

“Do you need anything else?”

Oikawa languidly shakes his head ‘no’ with a tight-lipped smile.

He sees the man take a breath and then reconsider, biting into his lip instead.

“If-, if there’s anything,” the gentle eyes skit between dead ones, “we’re right next door, okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

Oikawa yawns and closes his eyes, letting gravity drop him sideways on the bed, legs still over the edge.

After a while he hears a quiet ‘good night’, tentative steps leaving a few paces after, the door clicking shut almost imperceptibly.

An unsettling wave – of something – washes over him.

He sits up again, reaching for the glass and taking a few large gulps, then settling to rocking the water inside it, eyeing it moving around. He finds it somewhat amusing that he suddenly no longer feels such trepidation towards easing his thirst.

He sets the glass back on the nightstand, moving to lie on his back, eyes stuck on the ceiling and its dull off-white. His breaths come steadier than he’d expect them to.

A weird numbness permeates the forefront of his mind. An ugly calm.

For some reason, a flash of fire crosses his mind. Firefighting. Iwaizumi’s injuries that no doubt reach beyond his physical body. Graphic versions of what could have possibly happened to him.

_And here I am – alive – and still feeling sorry for myself._

He grabs ahold of his forearm and twists at the bandage through the hoodie, holding his breath so as not to make a sound.

 

_I’m faking it. There’s nothing wrong with me._


End file.
